THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OVER   BEMERTON'S 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

LISTENER'S  LURE 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 

THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 

THE  GENTLEST  ART 

FIRESIDE  AND  SUNSHINE 

CHARACTER  AND  COMEDY 

THE  LADIES'  PAGEANT 

A  WANDERER  IN  HOLLAND 

A  WANDERER  IN  LONDON 

ANNE'S  TERRIBLE  GOOD-NATURE 


OVER    BEMERTON'S 

AN    EASY-GOING    CHRONICLE 


BY 


E.   V.   LUCAS 


"IT    IS    VERY    DIFFICULT    FOR    HUMAN    BEINGS    NOT     TO    INFLUENCE 

EACH  OTHER:  WE  ARE  ALL  LINKS  IN  A  CHAIN." —  Observers  Corner 


"Ntto  §0rfc 

THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1908 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1908, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electroty pcd.    Published  October,  1908. 


Nortooob 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  <fe  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGE 

I.      ONE    TRAVELLER    RETURNS    AND    FINDS    A    HOME    IN 

WESTMINSTER i 

II.  INTRODUCING  THE  READER  TO  MR.  AND  MRS. 
WYNNE,  A  COUNTY  CRICKETER,  A  SUFFRAGETTE, 
AN  HEIR  OF  THE  AGES,  AND  AN  ANGEL  IO 

III.  THE  HAUNTS   OF   MEN   REVISITED   AND  THE  FIRST 

BEMERTONIAN  NUGGET 20 

IV.  DESCRIBING   MR.   AND   MRS.  DUCKIE,  ALF   PINTO, 

BEATRICE,  AND  ERN 32 

V.    MR.  DABNEY  OF   THE  BALANCE  LETS  HIMSELF 

GO 4O 

VI.    MR.  BEMERTON   CONFERS  UPON  ME  THE  FREEDOM 

OF  HIS  TREASURY 54 

VII.  RECALLS  OLD  STRUGGLES  IN  THE  EARLY    DAYS  OF 

GRACE  AND   INTRODUCES  A   TYRANT  FROM   LUD- 

LOW 62 

VIII.  I  MEET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  AND    RECEIVE   A   LESSON   IN 

PHILOSOPHY 72 

IX.    How   MRS.   FRANK   TRIED    HER    INNOCENT  GAMES 

ON  ONE  OF  THE  GREAT  ONES  OF  THE  EARTH         8l 


583457 

LISRARf 


vi  OVER   BEMERTON'S 

CHAP.  PAGE 

X.     A    HERO-WORSHIPPER    AGAIN    GLIMPSES    HIS    HERO, 

AFTER   MANY  YEARS 9! 

XI.    MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK   BRINGS   us 

INTO  THK  COMPANY  OF  QUAINT  AND  LEARNED 
GENTLEMEN IOI 

XII.    THESPIS  SENDS  ME  TWO  REPRESENTATIVES  ON  THE 

SAME  DAY  AND  MONOPOLISES  OUR  ATTENTION      .      114 

XIII.  I    GO    INTO    BUSINESS    PRO     TEM,    READ    A    GOOD 

POEM  UNDER  DIFFICULTY,  AND  LEARN  SOME- 
THING OF  WHAT  IT  MEANS  TO  BE  A  SECOND- 
HAND BOOKSELLER 127 

XIV.  THE  LINKEDNESS   OF   LIFE   IS    ILLUSTRATED,  AND   I 

BECOME  A   MONEY-LENDER 137 

XV.     MR.    DUCKIE,    WITH    HIS     NAPKIN    ON     HIS    ARM, 

SUGGESTS  A   SCHEME   FOR   HUMAN   HAPPINESS  .      148 

XVI.    MR.   DABNEY  OF  THE  BALANCE  MEETS  MORE 

THAN  HIS  MATCH,  AND  FINDS  A  RESCUER  .        .154 

XVII.  IN  WHICH,  AFTER  EXCEEDINGLY  TEDIOUS  TALK 
ABOUT  THE  WISE  EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS 
CASH,  AN  IDLER  IS  SET  TO  WORK  .  .  .164 

XVIII.    WE    ASSIST    AT    A    FUNCTION    IN   THE    MODERN 

SMITHFIELD,  BUT  NOT  QUITE  TO  THE  DEATH      .     175 

XIX.    SOME  LATTER-DAY  CHILDREN  ARE  PROVIDED  WITH 

VERY  CONGENIAL  MATERIAL  FOR  LAUGHTER         .    1 88 

XX.  AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  LEADS  TO  PLANS  OF 
TRAVEL,  AND  NAOMI  AND  I  ACCEPT  A  RESPONSI- 
BILITY .  .'  ,  *  ••"••«  .  .  .  .198 

XXI.  WE  ARE  WHIRLED  AWAY  BY  THE  2.2O  FROM 
CHARING  CROSS  AND  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  THB 
ADRIATIC  ,  208 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAP.  PAGE 

XXII.  MR.  BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK  SOLACES 
ME  WITH  THE  ODD  AND  HUMANE  HUMOURS 
OF  STUARTS  AND  TUDORS  .  .  .  .  219 

XXIII.  Miss  AZURE  VERITY  AND  MR.  DABNEY  OF  THE 

BALANCE  CONTINUE  TO  KEEP  MY  MIND  TO 

A  SINGLE  SUBJECT 23 1 

XXIV.  WITH    MR.    BEMERTON'S    ASSISTANCE    I    TAKE 

REFUGE  AMID  A  GALLANT  COMPANY  OF  SEA 
DOGS 239 

XXV.  I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  AND  HAVE  THE 
BEST  OPPORTUNITY  FOR  CONTRASTING  THE 
GRAVE  AND  THE  GAY 248 

XXVI.    MR.  DABNEY  AGAIN  SUFFERS,  AND  THE  YOUNGER 

GENERATION  DOES  NOT  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR 
BUT  WALKS  RIGHT  IN  AND  TALKS  EXTRAORDI- 
NARY STRAIGHT  TALK 263 

XXVII.    Miss  GOLD  SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY         .        .        .    274 
XXVIII.    REACHING  A  POINT  WHERE  MY  HISTORY  BEGINS 

TO  BE  WORTH  RECORDING,  I  CEASE  TO  NAR- 
RATE IT  ,  282 


CHAPTER  I 

ONE  TRAVELLER  RETURNS   AND   FINDS 
A   HOME   IN  WESTMINSTER 

"TV/TR.     FALCONER,"  said    Naomi    to    Mrs. 

IVJ.  Duckie,  "wants  quiet,  clean  rooms  and 
the  simplest  cooking.  Rarely  anything  but 
breakfast,  and  that  very  light.  It  must  be  in 
this  neighbourhood,  so  as  to  be  near  Queen  Anne's 
Gate." 

Mrs.  Duckie  said  that  hers  were  the  quietest 
rooms  in  London  and  almost  the  nearest  to 
Queen  Anne's  Gate:  certainly  the  nearest  quiet 
rooms.  As  for  her  cooking,  although  she  had  of 
course  in  her  time  served  up  for  dinner  parties  of 
ten  or  a  dozen,  when  she  was  with  Canon  Lyme, 
she  was  famous  for  her  small  happetising  meals 
too.  If  Mr.  Dabney  was  only  up  and  dressed  we 
might  ask  him. 

Mr.  Dabney  had  the  rooms  above  mine  —  or,  I 
should  say,  above  those  which  (as  I  could  see) 

B  I 


2  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Naomi  intended  should  be  mine  in  about  five 
minutes  —  but  being  a  gentleman  on  the  press 
who  kept  very  late  hours,  he  did  not  appear  till 
nearly  lunch  time ;  —  all  gentlemen  who  use  their 
heads,  said  Mrs.  Duckie,  needing  their  full  eight 
hours,  if  not  nine.  As  for  herself,  she  could  do 
with  six  or  seven;  but  Duckie  wanted  his  full 
eight,  and  had  them  too,  coming  as  he  did  from 
a  sleepy  stock.  She  had  known  him  of  a  Satur- 
day night  when  he  had  slep'  for  a  good  ten. 

"I  also  like  to  get  up  late,"  I  said,  "but  that  is 
owing  to  my  misfortune  in  being  unable  to  sleep 
well.  I  suffer  very  badly  from  insomnia." 

"Yes,"  said  Naomi,  "and  that  is  one  reason 
why  I  brought  you  first  to  these  rooms,  because 
of  the  advantage  of  living  over  a  second-hand 
bookseller's  shop.  Don't  you  see  that  there 
will  always  be  something  to  read?  When  you 
can't  sleep,"  she  hurried  on,  "and  you  are  tired  of 
all  your  own  books,  as  one  then  is,  you  have  only  to 
get  up,  light  a  candle,  slip  on  your  dressing-gown" 
(Naomi's  mind  is  all  hopefulness  and  practical 
method),  "and  go  down  to  the  shop  for  as  many 
others  as  you  want.  Because  of  course  you  will 
become  friends  with  the  bookseller  directly.  You 
always  do." 

"All  very  well;  but  how  if  the  bookseller  only 
rents  the  ground  floor  and  basement  and  lives 
four  miles  away  in  Harringay  with  the  key  under 
his  pillow?  which  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  does,  for 
Mrs.  —  er  —  Mrs.  —  told  me  so  while  you  were 
looking  at  the  bathroom.  What  then,  Naomi?" 


ONE  TRAVELLER  RETURNS  3 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  anything  of  that,"  she 
said:  "why,  he'll  give  you  a  duplicate  key  within  a 
week.  And  look,"  she  went  on,  "what  splendid 
cupboards  those  are,  and  it's  a  Lambert  grate  too, 
and  it's  known  that  they  throw  the  heat  right  out 
into  the  room"  (Naomi  has  no  scepticism  in  her, 
and  she  remembers  so  many  advertisements),  "and 
it  is  so  convenient  to  have  the  bedroom  and  the 
bathroom  leading  out  of  each  other.  It  is  a  good 
bath,  too:  the  hot  water  comes  at  once." 

"How  long  does  it  run  hot?"  I  asked. 

"Dear  Kent,"  she  cried,  now  as  completely  on 
the  side  of  the  landlady  as  if  they  were  in  partner- 
ship, "you  are  so  suspicious.  It  keeps  hot  all  the 
time.  I  tried  it." 

Mrs.  Duckie  corroborated.  "There  isn't  another 
house  within  a  mile,"  she  said,  "which  lets  rooms 
that  has  a  bathroom  like  ours.  It  was  put  in 
by  the  landlord  when  he  thought  of  living  here 
himself,  and  then  of  course  he  had  his  accident  and 
married  the  nurse  and  settled  down  at  Hendon 
for  life.  And  though  I  wish  him  nothing  but 
happiness,  it's  an  accident  that  I've  found  it  in 
my  heart  to  be  very  thankful  for,  laying  in  that 
beautiful  bath  of  a  Saturday  night." 

"After  the  books  and  the  bathroom,"  Naomi 
broke  in,  "the  best  thing  is  the  corner  position. 
The  windows  look  right  along  two  streets.  Think 
how  interesting  that  will  be  sometimes.  Because 
I  shall  put  your  table  in  the  corner,  so  that 
you  can  look  up  from  your  reading  and  see  out 
of  both  equally  well." 


4  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  mentioned  something  about  draughts. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Naomi;  "there  will  be  india- 
rubber  piping  put  all  round,  and  sandbags  over  the 
cracks." 

"They  are  such  a  violent  red,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  of  course,  when  you  buy  them,"  said 
Naomi,  who  thinks  ahead  by  instinct,  "but  I  shall 
cover  them  for  you.  I  saw  some  stuff  at  Libnett's 
the  other  day.  I  think  purple  is  the  colour  for  this 
room,  and  blue  for  the  bedroom.  Yes,  purple  and 
blue.  I  will  send  for  a  book  of  patterns  at  once, 
and  we  can  choose  them  to-morrow  morning  when 
the  light  is  good." 

"But  the  'Goat  and  Compasses'  opposite,"  I 
said,  determined  to  be  as  difficult  as  I  could, 
"isn't  that  rather  near?" 

"Not  a  better  conducted  house  in  London," 
Mrs.  Duckie  at  once  broke  in.  "The  landlord  and 
the  landlady  are  as  nice  a  couple  as  God  Almighty 
ever  set  behind  a  bar.  He  was  butler  to  Lord 
Latimer,  and  she  was  the  cook,  and  his  Lordship 
left  them  each  five  hundred  pounds.  They've 
only  been  there  eight  months,  and  already  the 
place  is  so  changed  you  wouldn't  know  it.  The 
difference  between  it  now  and  what  it  used  to  be!" 
Mrs.  Duckie  raised  her  hands.  "I  assure  you, 
miss,"  she  said,  "that  if  you  had  brought  your  — 
your " 

"Grandfather,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh  no,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Duckie.  "What  a 
thing  to  say !  Grandfather  indeed !  Why,  you're 
in  your  prime." 


ONE  TRAVELLER  RETURNS  5 

"Of  course,"  said  Naomi,  "what  rubbish  you 
talk!" 

"As  I  was  saying,"  Mrs.  Duckie  continued, 
"if  you  had  brought  him  to  these  rooms  a  year 
ago,  and  implored  me  on  your  bended  knees  to  let 
him"  take  them  at  twice  the  rent,  I  should  have 
said  no.  My  conscience  wouldn't  have  permitted 
me  to  let  them  to  a  refined  gentleman  with 
insomnia  and  scholarly  ways  of  life  and  relations 
in  Queen  Anne's  Gate.  I  should  have  said  no. 
But  now  —  why,  I  might  be  living  in  the  Little 
Cloisters  at  the  Abbey  again,  it's  so  respectable 
and  quiet." 

"The  sign  of  the  'Goat  and  Compasses,'"  I 
remarked,  "is  said  to  be  derived  from  the  words, 
'God  encompasseth  us.'" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Duckie, 
who  at  that  moment  was  called  away. 

"Then  you  insist  on  my  taking  these  rooms,"  I 
said  to  Naomi. 

"No,  Kent,  not  insist,"  she  answered.  "But 
they're  really  nice  rooms.  And  central  too.  You've 
only  got  to  cross  the  bridge  and  you're  all  among 
your  Clubs  and  everything  else,  and  such  a  nice 
walk  to  lunch  through  the  park  among  the  ducks 
and  cormorants.  I  should  be  miserable  if  you 
were  in  Jermyn  Street  with  no  compulsory  nice 
walk  at  all.  And  you're  close  to  us  and  the 
Stores." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "and  if  ever  I  choose  to  go  into 
Parliament,  which  any  one  may  do  to-day,  how 
convenient!  And  how  easy  to  become  a  Roman 


6  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Catholic,  with  the  new  Cathedral  so  handy !  And 
I  might  buy  one  of  the  Thames  steamboats, 
which  I  am  told  are  going  very  cheap,  and  keep 
it  at  Westminster  Bridge." 

Naomi  laughed.  She  laughs  at  me  now  and 
then,  not  because  she  thinks  I  am  particularly 
funny,  but  because  she  knows  it  makes  me  happier 
to  think  that  I  am  thought  funny.  For  Naomi 
takes  things  as  they  come,  and,  like  most  women, 
has  no  need  of  jokes.  Brightness  and  sense  appeal 
to  her  more  than  all  fantasy,  wit,  or  cleverness. 
People  who  think  ahead  are  bound  to  be  rather 
automatically  receptive,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  her 
mind  was  already  turning  over  the  patterns ;  but  the 
undercurrent  of  sweetness  always  running  in  her 
nature  prompted  her  little  kindly  laugh.  Deceptive, 
no  doubt,  but  innocently  so.  A  gentle  hypocrisy  is 
not  only  the  basis  but  the  salt  of  civilised  life. 

"The  only  objection  left,"  I  said,  "is  the  name 
of  the  landlady.  Do  I  really  understand  you  to  say 
that  it  is  Duckie?" 

Naomi  laughed  outright.  This  struck  her  as 
being  really  funny.  "But,  my  dear  Kent,"  she 
said,  "you  would  not  refuse  good  rooms  because 
of  the  landlady's  name?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  would,"  I  replied.  "That's  exactly 
what  I  would  do." 

"Not  when  all  you  have  to  do,"  said  Naomi, 
"is  to  call  her  something  else?  One  of  our 
parlourmaids  was  named  Victoria,  but  we  called 
her  Jane.  You  could  call  Mrs.  Duckie  Landlady 
or  Housekeeper." 


ONE  TRAVELLER  RETURNS  7 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Duckie  returned,  and  I 
took  the  rooms  without  another  word. 

"Mr.  Bemerton  will  be  very  pleased,"  she  said. 
"Mr.  Bemerton  has  the  book  shop  downstairs. 
He  asks  me  every  day  if  I  have  a  tenant  yet,  and 
he  has  been  hoping  it  would  be  some  one  who  is 
fond  of  reading." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  (although  I  did  not  tell 
Naomi  so,  wishing  her  to  think  that  it  was  all  her 
doing),  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  directly  I  saw  the  book  shop  underneath, 
that  unless  there  were  very  imposing  obstacles 
I  should  make  these  rooms  my  home.  My 
feet  have  always  led  me  naturally  to  second-hand 
booksellers'  shops,  and  after  thirty  years  of  exile 
in  such  a  bookless  city  as  Buenos  Ay  res,  the  idea 
of  being  so  close  to  one  of  these  little  terrestrial 
heavens  was  too  much  for  me.  Besides,  think 
of  the  name  —  Bemerton  —  with  the  suggestion  of 
holy  Mr.  Herbert  in  it. 

That  was  my  fate,  I  knew  swiftly  (as  one  does 
know  his  fate  at  fifty-five).  I  was  to  live  over 
Bemerton's. 

Having  arranged  to  send  in  some  paperhangers 
and  painters  at  once,  we  bade  Mrs.  Duckie  farewell 
and  descended  the  stairs  to  the  street;  but  I 
would  not  depart  until  I  had  bought  a  book  for 
luck.  Being  a  profound  believer  in  the  humour 
if  not  the  reason  of  chance,  I  told  Naomi  that 
from  the  first  shelf  on  the  left  hand  that  came 
as  high  as  my  heart  I  would  buy  two  books: 
for  her,  the  twenty-ninth  book  from  the  doorway 


8  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

(her  age  is  twenty-nine) ;  for  me,  the  fifty-fifth ;  — 
no  matter  what  the  subject  and  no  matter  what  the 
price. 

And  what  do  you  think  they  were?  Naomi's 
by  curious  and  very  pleasant  fortune  was  Walton's 
Lives  (with  holy  Mr.  Herbert  of  Bemerton  shed- 
ding a  gentle  light  over  all);  and  mine  was  a  fat 
volume  in  a  yellow  paper  cover,  lying  on  its  side, 
for  which  I  had  to  pay  two  solid  English  pounds. 

Naomi's  face  was  a  picture  of  disapproval  as  I 
produced  the  money;  for  she  is  no  believer  in 
fate  and  no  supporter  of  supine  acquiescence,  wise 
receptivity,  and  all  the  rest  of  it:  Naomi  believes 
in  self-help  and  courage  and  in  getting  one's 
books  from  the  London  Library.  But  when  she 
saw  the  title  her  expression  changed  from  dis- 
approval to  positive  grief,  for  it  ran  thus:  A 
Chinese  Biographical  Dictionary,  by  Herbert  A. 
Giles,  London  and  Shanghai,  1898. 

"My  dear  Kent,"  she  cried,  "how  very  wrong  of 
you  to  do  these  silly  superstitious  things !  What- 
ever can  you  find  to  interest  you  in  Chinese 
biography?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  said  the  bookseller, 
"you  make  a  great  mistake.  The  gentleman  has 
bought  what  is  at  once  one  of  the  best  and  the 
least  known  books  in  this  shop.  If  he  looks  at 
it  to-night,  however  casually,  and  does  not  agree 
with  me,  I  will  cheerfully  give  him  two  pounds 
again  for  it  to-morrow  morning." 

Directly  Naomi  heard  this  she  brightened  again 
—  for  was  there  not  a  bargain  in  the  air  ?  —  and  off 


ONE  TRAVELLER  RETURNS  9 

we  trotted  to  Queen  Anne's  Gate  in  very  good 
humour,  talking  furniture  and  decoration  all  the 
way,  with  a  word  as  to  the  promising  and  un- 
usual business  habits  of  Mr.  Bemerton,  and  a  few 
remarks  from  me  on  the  favourite  topic  of  the 
kindness  of  chance  when  one  really  gives  her 
her  head  and  refrains  from  even  the  shadow  of 
authority. 

To  this  Naomi  replied  that  she  thought,  all 
things  considered,  that  I  had  better  get  most  of 
the  things  at  the  Stores  rather  than  go  all  the 
way  to  Tottenham  Court  Road. 


CHAPTER  II 

INTRODUCING  THE  READER  TO  MR. 
AND  MRS.  WYNNE,  A  COUNTY 
CRICKETER,  A  SUFFRAGETTE,  AN 
HEIR  OF  THE  AGES,  AND  AN  ANGEL 

QUEEN  ANNE'S  GATE,  where  my  stepsister 
and  her  family  live,  is,  I  think,  save  for  the 
lack  of  sun,  the  most  attractive  street  in 
London.  My  stepsister's  house  backing  on  the 
Park,  the  windows  on  that  side  pick  up  some 
kindly  oblique  rays  in  the  afternoon,  but  hi  the 
morning  they  are  sunless.  My  stepsister,  who  is 
an  optimist,  says,  however,  that  she  would  as  soon 
see  from  her  rooms  London  lit  by  the  sun  as  have 
the  sun  herself. 

Certainly  she  has  made  her  own  especial 
sanctuary  very  charming,  and  the  view  over  the 
Park  and  the  water  to  the  cool  line  of  Carlton 
House  Terrace  and  the  grey  mist  above  is 
very  soothing.  To  the  right  is  the  half  smoked, 
half  gleaming  stone-work  of  the  Government 
offices. 

It  is  a  quiet  spot,  undisturbed  by  shattering 
traffic.  One  sits  here  within  sound  of  the  greater 

10 


MY  STEPSISTER'S  FAMILY  n 

music  of  the  city,  but  so  far  removed  from  it  that 
the  cries  of  the  water-fowl  and  the  cooing  of  out- 
rageously fat  pigeons  come  soothingly  to  the  ear. 
Now  and  then  a  bugle  sounds  in  the  neigh- 
bouring barracks.  Big  Ben  booms  the  hours. 
In  the  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  which  I 
occupied  on  my  return  from  abroad  while  Naomi 
was  scouring  the  neighbourhood  for  a  lodging  for 
me,  I  used,  as  I  lay  awake  at  night,  to  hear  the 
water-fowl  so  clearly  that  at  first  it  seemed  like 
old  days  in  Norfolk.  Now,  it  is  a  circumstance 
worth  recording  that  after  Norfolk  there  is  no 
place  where  one  can  so  certainly  count  upon 
watching  the  sure  strong  flight  of  wild-duck  as 
St.  James's  Park. 

It  is  very  interesting,  after  an  intercourse  with 
a  family  which  for  some  years  has  been  carried 
on  wholly  by  letter,  with  perhaps  an  occasional 
interchange  of  photographs,  to  be  set  down  sud- 
denly in  its  midst  and  become  one  of  it.  My 
stepsister  of  course  came  more  or  less  naturally 
enough  to  me,  for  we  had  been  friends  when  we 
were  young,  before  I  went  abroad.  Moreover,  she 
requires  no  learning:  she  is  always  complete  and 
the  same.  But  her  husband  I  had  never  seen,  and 
as  for  the  children  (as  I  thought  of  them),  they 
were  just  names  and  anecdotes  and  faded  cartes 
de  visile  to  me.  I,  however,  thanks  to  their 
mother's  loyalty,  was  more  to  them,  for  they  had 
been  told  much  about  my  young  days,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  that  portions  at  least  of  my  in- 
frequent letters  were  read  aloud  as  they  arrived. 


12  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

The  initial  difficulty  —  by  no  means  a  small 
one  —  of  what  I  was  to  be  called  having  been 
slowly  overcome  (myself  objecting  as  strongly  to 
the  Uncle  Kent  which  they  seemed  to  favour  as 
they  did  to  the  Kent  pure  and  simple  which  I 
wanted),  all  went  very  smoothly,  and  the  family 
quickly  dropped  company  manners  and  showed 
me  what  it  really  was.  Not  that  the  difference 
was  very  marked,  but  a  difference  of  course  there 
always  is  —  company  manners  being  for  the  most 
part  a  kind  of  sandpaper  that  removes  the  asperities 
(and  occasionally  the  attractions)  of  personality. 

They  are  all  very  affectionate,  but  at  the  same 
time  they  all  have  their  idiosyncrasies  and  cherish 
them. 

There  are  (as  one  says)  two  boys  and  two  girls; 
but  the  boys  are  twenty-seven  and  twenty-five,  and 
the  girls  twenty-nine  and  twenty-one.  Naomi, 
the  eldest,  is  the  quiet  head  of  the  house,  for  my 
stepsister  has  poor  health  and  takes  things  easily, 
and  it  is  understood  that  she  must  be  saved  from 
anxieties  and  trials.  Naomi  therefore  is  the  buffer 
state  not  only  between  her  mother  and  the  kitchen 
but  between  her  mother  and  the  world. 

Drusilla  when  I  first  arrived  was  a  Slade  student, 
a.  suffragette,  and  beyond  correction  or  even  in- 
struction on  any  point  under  the  sun.  She  wore  a 
badge  bearing  the  words  "Defiance,  not  Defence." 
Drusilla  is  very  pretty,  but  Naomi,  I  think,  is 
beautiful.  It  is,  however,  Drusilla  who  wins  notice. 
Naomi's  beauty  is  for  a  riper  judgment,  since  the 
better  you  know  her  the  more  beautiful  she  is. 


MY  STEPSISTER'S  FAMILY  13 

I  thought  of  Ceres  directly  I  saw  her,  and  the 
impression  grows.  If  I  were  an  artist  I  would 
paint  her  so.  She  has  the  steady  level  gaze 
that  I  think  of  as  that  goddess's:  she  loves  all 
little  helpless  things,  and  all  little  helpless  things 
love  her;  she  leaves  nothing  quite  where  it  is,  but 
stimulates  and  nourishes  it.  And  yet  to  compare 
Naomi  with  Ceres  is  not  doing  her  full  justice,  for 
it  takes  no  count  of  her  sympathetic  imagination 
or  her  readiness  for  fun.  Ceres  the  goddess,  I 
take  it,  might  have  been  the  dullest  woman  in  real 
life. 

Naomi,  although  she  could  not  be  called  clever 
and  certainly  is  not  witty,  is  so  full  of  what,  to 
save  much  language,  one  might  call  womanliness, 
and  the  best  womanliness,  as  to  suggest  profound 
sanity.  If  I  had  to  describe  this  gift  in  a  single 
word,  I  should  say  acceptivity.  Those  of  us  who 
are  born  critical  and  exacting  approach  nothing 
quite  simply :  we  disapprove  or  we  approve,  and  in 
so  doing  lose  not  only  time  but  equanimity.  But 
to  Naomi's  serene,  sane  mind  the  world  has  to  be 
accepted  as  it  is,  and  therefore  she  is  always  the 
same.  Not  that  she  considers  everything  perfect, 
but  she  has  an  instinctive  realisation  of  the 
inevitability  of  imperfection  which  keeps  her 
contented  —  or  at  any  rate  prevents  querulous 
discontent. 

Naomi's  sweet  and  candid  mind,  without  poring 
over  the  matter  at  all,  has,  one  feels,  submitted 
life  and  all  its  phenomena  to  a  reasonable  evalua- 
tion. She  understands:  in  a  word,  accepts.  It 


14  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

is  indeed  a  special  prerogative  of  even  stupid 
women  to  do  this  simply.  The  last  thing  that 
men  learn  about  women  is  how  transparent  and 
natural  they  really  are  in  all  the  essentials,  our 
delay  being  due  largely  to  our  own  want  of 
imagination  and  not  a  little  to  the  circumstance 
that  we  are  brought  up  to  expect  freakishness, 
insincerity,  and  mischief.  Proverbial  lore,  the 
testimony  of  so  much  literature,  and  the  whole 
tendency  of  national  facetiousness  run  that  way. 
And  yet  feyv  intelligent  men  individually  would 
support  it  from  their  own  knowledge,  and  most 
would  say  that  among  their  least  admirable  and 
most  ridiculous  moments  were  those  which  they 
had  once  spent  in  protecting  their  wives  or  sweet- 
hearts (to  use  a  better  word  than  fiancees)  from 
possibilities  of  offence  in  public  places.  Women 
are  far  nearer  nature  than  men:  so  near,  indeed, 
that  one  suspects  that  the  inventor  of  most  of  the 
superficial  proprieties  was  not  Mrs.  Grundy  but 
her  husband. 

Naomi  has  no  vocation.  The  eight  years 
intervening  between  her  birth  and  that  of  Drusilla 
made  all  the  difference,  and  it  is  as  natural  for 
the  elder  sister  never  to  have  learned,  say,  type- 
writing, as  it  is  for  the  younger  to  learn  painting 
in  Gower  Street.  But  Naomi  is  by  far  the  busier. 
She  is,  indeed,  always  employed,  either  indoors  or 
out.  She  does  the  shopping,  decides  the  menu, 
writes  most  of  the  letters,  engages  servants,  and 
pays  the  calls. 

Those  are  her  family  duties.    Her  own  tastes 


MY  STEPSISTER'S  FAMILY  15 

run  in  the  direction  of  what  is  called  charity,  but 
to  them  she  herself  would  never  give  that  word. 
The  number  of  her  pensioners  (and  I  might 
say  subjects  or  worshippers)  no  one  probably  will 
ever  know.  They  are  not  by  any  means  all  in 
want  of  material  help,  the  only  benefaction  she 
offers  beneath  many  roofs  being  the  bounty  of  her 
smile  and  cheerfulness.  She  makes  a  point,  for 
example,  of  retaining  knowledge  of  the  Queen 
Anne's  Gate  servants  after  they  leave,  which  they 
do  only  to  be  married  and  have  fat  and  happy 
babies  with  punctuality  and  dispatch  for  Miss 
Naomi  to  play  with  and  befriend.  There  are 
three  such  servants  at  this  moment  in  various 
parts  of  London  whose  babies  are  visited  regu- 
larly; but  Frank's  twins  naturally  come  first. 
Then  there  is  a  hospital  at  which  Naomi  attends, 
and  a  girls'  club  of  which  she  is  the  treasurer; 
and  of  course  she  has  a  retinue  of  "chars"  and 
sewing  women. 

The  boys  are  Frank  and  Lionel.  Frank  is 
the  only  one  that  is  married,  and  he  lives  in  a 
tiny  house  in  Barton  Street  with  his  wife  and  his 
twins.  He  is  at  present  a  journalist,  but  all  kinds 
of  books  are  to  come  from  him.  Lionel  is  at 
the  Bar,  but  not  yet  has  he  pleaded  a  cause, 
largely,  I  fancy,  on  account  of  the  British  solici- 
tor's unwillingness  to  believe  in  the  zeal  or  capac- 
ity of  a  Middlesex  fast  scorer  (for  Lionel  plays 
for  that  county),  and  partly  because  his  grand- 
mother's generosity  has  made  it  so  absurdly  possible 
for  Lionel  to  neglect  his  duties. 


16  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Frank  I  like  immensely,  for  he  is  quiet  and 
kind  and  humorous,  but  Lionel  is  more  caustic 
and  impatient  than  one  wants,  and  he  is  also  a 
shade  too  voluble  upon  games.  He  may  be  said 
to  live  for  them;  and,  as  with  most  men  who  do 
so,  his  yawns  come  with  the  dusk.  Cricket  I  too 
adore,  and  we  have  this  passion  in  common;  but 
Lionel  is  not  interested  in  the  past,  and  that,  of 
course,  is  where  all  my  cricket  lies.  He  is,  how- 
ever, going  to  take  me  to  see  him  play,  and  I 
dare  say  I  shall  soon  learn  enough  about  the  new 
men  not  to  bore  him.  Into  golf  I  cannot  follow 
him;  partly  because  I  have  never  played,  and 
partly  because  I  like  socialism  in  games,  and  the 
idea  of  employing  a  caddie  will  always  be  un- 
pleasant to  me.  Lionel  naturally  cannot  accept 
this  point  of  view,  and  so  few  other  golfers  that 
I  know  are  able  to  do  so  that  I  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  golfing  temperament  is 
essentially  aristocratic  —  a  feudal  inheritance  —  the 
property  exclusively  of  those  who  can  see  nothing 
absurd  or  even  degrading  in  the  spectacle  of  power- 
ful frivolous  men  being  followed  by  boys  of  burden. 

With  my  stepsister  I  was  of  course  quickly  at 
home;  but  with  her  husband,  Alderley  Wynne, 
K.C.,  I  shall  never  really  be  comfortable.  Beside 
his  clear,  comprehensive,  legal,  synthetic  mind, 
accustomed  to  see  the  end  at  the  same  moment 
that  it  sees  the  beginning,  generalising  swiftly 
and  usually  accurately,  my  intellectual  edges 
appear  so  very  ragged  and  indistinct,  and  my 
hesitancies  with  regard  to  right  and  wrong  so 


MY  STEPSISTER'S  FAMILY  17 

cowardly  and  anarchical.  Moreover,  he  does  not 
understand  how  any  man  can  voluntarily  expa- 
triate himself  except  for  gain,  and  I  have  come 
back  so  little  better  off  than  I  left.  Alderley  likes 
a  man  to  make  either  money  or  reputation;  he 
is  impatient  of  all  who  stand  still.  Stuff  must 
in  due  course  be  succeeded  by  silk  in  life  as  well 
as  at  the  Bar,  he  holds.  I  figure  as  a  stationary 
man,  which  is  only  one  degree  less  reprehensible 
than  a  retrograde  man.  None  the  less,  since  he 
is  devoted  to  his  wife  in  a  very  beautiful,  attentive 
way,  and  she  is  fond  of  me,  and  I  stand  for  her 
relation  (although  I  am,  of  course,  no  kin  to  her 
really),  even  although  his  critical  judgment  tells 
him  that  I  have  failed,  his  heart  and  house  are 
open  to  me. 

It  is  amusing  to  watch  him  with  his  daughters, 
for  although  he  disapproves  of  almost  every  word 
that  Drusilla  says,  yet  his  passion  for  intellectual  ac- 
tivity makes  him  secretly  far  prouder  of  her  than  of 
Naomi,  whom  he  loves  truly  enough,  but  is  inclined 
rather  to  group  with  mere  creatures  of  instinct. 

Naomi  threw  out  signals  of  understanding  at 
once  and  took  me  under  her  charge,  as  I  have 
already  shown.  You  leave  it  to  me,  she  seemed 
to  say,  evidently  looking  upon  me  as  a  foreigner 
in  need  of  help  and  instruction  at  every  turn.  Un- 
married girls  of  twenty-nine,  if  they  have  not  grown 
embittered  (as  they  are  too  apt  to  do),  can  be  very 
administrative  and  protective.  The  maternal  feel- 
ing, I  suppose. 

With  Drusilla,  whose  blood  circulates  more  in 
c 


i8  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  brain,  I  have  not  hit  it  off  so  well,  although 
we  are  quite  friendly.  She  so  clearly  looks  upon 
me  pityingly  as  a  trifler  and  in  a  sense  an 
ignoramus  (for  I  had  never  even  heard  of  John), 
and  she  is  not  yet  old  enough  to  see  ihat  England 
and  its  needs  can  perhaps  be  as  well,  if  not 
better,  studied  from  abroad  than  when  one  is  in 
the  midst.  The  difference  between  Naomi  and 
Drusilla  is  that  Drusilla  asks,  Naomi  gives. 
Not  the  least  remarkable  thing  in  this  wonderful 
world  in  which  we  grope  and  have  our  being,  is 
the  amazing  differences  that  can  exist  in  the  children 
of  the  same  parents. 

With  the  exception  of  Frank,  the  family  seems 
to  be  incorrigibly  celibate.  But  of  course  at  every 
moment  lifelong  decisions  to  be  single  are  being 
overturned,  and  one  never  knows.  Drusilla  now, 
I  feel,  might  easily  follow  some  such  remark  as 
"Please  pass  the  salt"  with  the  statement,  made 
equally  coolly,  that  she  was  engaged.  If  so,  it 
would  probably  be  to  a  Fabian  with  long  hair,  a 
blue  flannel  collar,  and  a  red  tie,  or  some  youthful 
artist  whose  genius  carries  with  it  a  perpetual 
dispensation  from  soap  and  razor.  All  her  friends 
seem  to  be  young  men  of  these  two  brands,  who 
like  drawing  to  be  ugly  and  poetry  to  be  Irish.  I 
meet  her  now  and  then  in  St.  James's  Park  with  a 
retinue  of  them,  and  we  stand  on  the  bridge  and 
exchange  views  of  life  for  a  few  moments  or  draw 
each  other's  attention  to  the  light  over  Whitehall 
and  the  colour  of  London.  Then  they  move  off,  a 
little  as  if  they  were  guests  for  the  Last  Supper, 


MY  STEPSISTER'S  FAMILY  19 

with  their  brown  beards  and  blue  collars,  and  Dru- 
silla  and  I  walk  to  Queen  Anne's  Gate  together. 

They  are  all  simple  good  fellows,  in  spite  of 
their  very  patent  atheisms  and  nihilisms  and  solemn 
vows  to  be  married  either  without  a  ceremony  at 
all  or  hi  a  registry  office;  but  I  don't  think  our 
little  Drusilla  is  for  any  of  them.  For  this  new 
comradeship  between  young  men  and  young 
women  is  not  making  for  marriage,  especially 
among  the  bisexual,  as  to  a  certain  extent  most 
artists  and  revolutionaries  are. 

One  other  member  the  family  may  be  said  to 
have :  Mr.  Adolphus  —  or  Dollie  —  Heathcote,  an 
articled  pupil  of  Alderley's  who  is  continually 
dropping  in  in  the  evening  and  is  on  the  best 
terms  with  himself  and  every  one:  a  very 
agreeable  ornamental  person.  When  it  was 
the  fashion  to  present  me  with  contributions  of 
furniture  or  knick-knacks  for  my  rooms,  Dollie, 
who  seems  to  have  an  infallible  scent  for 
everything  that  is,  hi  his  own  phrase,  dodgy, 
and  who  lights  his  cigarettes  with  a  pocket  spirit- 
lamp  that  would  not  be  out  of  place  in  the 
Arabian  Nights,  gave  me  a  clock  on  a  new  design 
which  dispenses  with  a  dial  but  records  the  hours 
and  minutes  on  little  numbered  labels.  These  labels 
are  nipped  away  by  an  invisible  agency  one  by  one 
as  they  expire,  and  are  for  one's  comfort  almost  too 
much  like  performers  in  a  sombre  moral  drama 
illustrating  the  flight  of  time  and  the  approach  of 
annihilation.  Dollie,  however,  I  am  sure  has  no 
such  thoughts.  "A  top-hole  idea,"  he  called  it. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   HAUNTS   OF   MEN   REVISITED  AND 
THE   FIRST   BEMERTONIAN   NUGGET 

MY  first  few  days  over  Bemerton's  were  a 
dream  of  joy  and  liberty.  I  am  happy 
enough  still  (my  nature  is  happy),  but  in  those  first 
few  days  I  was  realising  the  desire  of  half  a  life- 
time —  I  was  in  the  dovecote,  so  to  speak,  that 
all  my  thoughts  had  been  homing  to,  day  and 
night,  for  years  and  years. 

How  often  had  I  awakened  and  lain  awake  for 
hours,  powerless  to  sleep  again  with  all  London 
in  my  head  —  not  only  its  sights  and  sounds  but 
the  scents  of  it.  Latterly,  when  the  date  of  my 
release  was  fixed  and  grew  nearer,  this  small-hour 
excitement  had  so  intensified  that  I  began  to  fear 
brain-fever,  and  indeed  at  the  end  nothing  but 
drugs  had  saved  me;  but  the  voyage  put  things 
right :  once  again  the  sea  washed  away  —  as  who 
says  ?  is  it  not  Lucretius  ?  —  the  ills  of  man. 

At  my  stepsister's  I  was  in  a  kind  of  trance. 
It  was  all  so  strange  and  unreal,  and  also  there, 
even  if  subconsciously,  I  played  the  voluptuary,  the 

20 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED          21 

epicure,  and  postponed  the  true  rapture  to  the  last, 
thinking  that  I  would  not  begin  to  realise  all  the 
best  anticipations  until  my  rooms  were  my  own 
—  until  once  again  I  was  my  own  master,  as  one 
never  is  in  any  one  else's  house.  Dreams  of 
London  liberty  that  were  dreamed  alone  should 
be  realised  alone;  and  so,  although  Naomi  and 
I  went  everywhere,  and  I  tasted  many  of  the 
pleasures  I  had  meditated  upon,  there  was,  as  it 
were,  a  veil  between  them  and  my  sensorium,  not 
to  be  lifted  until  I  was  free  once  more  and  the 
obligations  of  a  grateful  guest  were  removed.  Dear 
Naomi,  I  think,  understood,  and  hastened  accord- 
ingly in  her  search  for  rooms. 

At  first  this  perfect  irresponsibility  in  my  city 
of  delight  was  almost  too  much:  I  was  in  danger 
of  another  breakdown.  Sleep  I  could  not.  I 
roamed  London  from  west  to  east,  from  south 
to  north.  I  drifted  wherever  the  impulse  took 
me.  I  was  intoxicated  with  humanity  —  bemused 
by  people.  I  stood  for  hours  on  the  bridges  watch- 
ing the  tugs  and  the  barges.  I  stood  for  hours 
in  Farringdon  Street  at  this  barrow  and  that. 

I  had  no  method:  I  boarded  buses  for  the 
docks,  and  never  got  beyond  the  stalls  of  Butchers' 
Row.  I  set  out  in  the  morning  for  Highgate,  and 
by  evening  was  still  in  the  Charing  Cross  Road. 
I  accepted  invitations  to  dinner,  and  what  time  the 
entree  was  being  served  I  might  be  seen  through 
the  steam  of  sausage  and  mashed  dining  in  a  small 
eating-house.  I  started  to  pay  calls  on  old  friends, 
and  wandered  to  the  National  Gallery.  I  read 


22  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  advertisements  of  the  best  plays,  and  found 
myself  in  the  Middlesex.  I  meditated  Hampstead 
Heath,  and  instead  inhaled  invigorating  draughts 
of  naphtha  in  the  New  Cut.  I  bought  a  ticket 
for  Queen's  Hall,  and  allowed  a  melodrama  in 
the  Mile  End  Road  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  my 
emotions. 

But  I  had  my  disappointments  too.  It  was 
too  often  not  the  London  of  my  dreams.  My 
dreams  had  taken  no  account  of  change.  The 
Piccadilly  I  had  visualised  so  long  and  so  long- 
ingly was  the  Piccadilly  of  1875 — how  different 
from  this !  My  Strand  was  a  Strand  on  which 
no  County  Council  had  wreaked  its  zeal.  One 
of  my  favourite  haunts  as  a  youth  had  been 
Clare  Market  —  that  Hogarthian  oasis  —  and  Clare 
Market  has  passed  for  ever;  and  who  can  lay 
his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  say  that  the  Charing 
Cross  Road  is  any  real  substitute  for  the  street 
of  Holy  Well?  That  that  area  was  insanitary  and 
is  better  away  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The 
true  Londoner  cares  no  straw  for  sanitation.  He 
thrives  on  ill  conditions. 

I  swear  to  you  that  through  my  heaven  blow 
pungent  clouds  of  sulphurous  metropolitan  smoke 
—  such  as  we  breathed  in  perfection  years  ago 
between  Portland  Road  and  King's  Cross  and 
between  Blackfriars  and  Charing  Cross.  Where  are 
they  now?  The  higher  slopes  of  Snowdon  are 
hardly  more  free  from  grime  than  the  ladylike 
highway  into  which  electricity  has  converted  the 
underground. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED          23 

London's  other  new  means  of  rapid  transit  were 
a  disappointment  too.  We  have  motor  cars  in 
Buenos  Ay  res,  but  I  was  not  prepared  for  such  a 
capture  of  the  streets  as  I  found.  For  how  many 
nights  before  I  came  away  did  coloured  omnibuses 
in  full  sail  fill  my  dreams  in  irresistible  onset! 
That  was  London.  The  motor  bus  has  its  onset 
too,  but  it  has  none  of  the  old  rollick.  It  comes 
rigidly  towards  you,  immense  and  terrifying.  It 
does  not  sway  nor  roll.  It  wears  the  inflexible, 
pitiless  air  of  progress.  It  is  Juggernaut.  How 
human  and  genial  was  the  bus! 

But  among  all  the  London  phantasmagoria 
that  had  flickered  before  my  sleeping  and  waking 
and  dozing  eyes  the  hansom  cab  was,  I  think,  the 
most  constant.  I  used  to  hear  the  horse's  bell. 
...  I  had  never  forgotten  my  first  hansom  ride. 
Does  any  one  forget  it  ?  My  next  —  my  second 
first  hansom  ride,  so  to  say  —  was  to  be  as 
memorable.  I  thought  about  it  absurdly.  I 
remembered  the  sense  of  comfort  with  which  one 
settled  down  into  the  seat  and  closed  the  flaps 
and  then  composed  oneself  to  watch  London 
unfold.  .  .  .  But  I  found  the  motor  cab  the 
master  of  the  streets.  The  hansom  was  still 
there,  but  not  the  hansom  that  I  had  known. 
The  dashing  driver  was  gone,  the  knowing  fellow 
with  a  straw  in  his  mouth,  and  a  coat  with  large 
buttons,  and  a  raffish  tall  hat  on  the  side  of  his 
head.  The  hansom  driver  to-day  is  more  like  the 
growler  driver  of  the  past:  a  beaten  man.  I  am 
sorry  for  him,  and  so  long  as  I  am  not  in  a  hurry 


24  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  will  climb  into  his  vehicle  as  of  old  —  that  is, 
until  it  disappears,  as  I  suppose  it  must.  And 
what  then?  In  my  youth  old  hansoms  when  they 
died  went  to  Oxford.  Where  will  they  go  to-day? 

But,  when  all  is  said,  the  London  that  one 
most  desired  in  such  an  exile  as  mine  was  the 
London  of  winter.  London  on  a  fine  November 
evening  at,  say,  six  o'clock,  after  Christmas  has 
been  signalled,  when  there  is  an  edge  on  the  air 
and  an  indigo  mist  in  the  streets  and  the  shops 
are  all  lighted.  The  return  home  to  a  bright 
fire  under  these  conditions,  with  the  evening  paper 
or  a  new  book  or  magazine!  It  was  a  simple 
ideal,  but  it  carried  extraordinary  comfort  and 
satisfaction  with  it. 

Slippers  .  .  . 

I  used  to  meditate  on  it  for  hours. 

What  a  deal  of  pleasant  Undress  repose  must 
be  missed  by  the  fashionable!  How  poor  an 
exchange  are  dress  boots  for  soft  slippers,  a  stall 
for  an  arm-chair,  and  (I  myself  would  add)  a  play 
for  a  book ! 

That  reminds  me  that  I  must  tell  you  about 
my  first  Bemerton  purchase,  the  Chinese  Bio- 
graphical Dictionary.  Mr.  Bemerton  was  right: 
it  is  a  treasure.  I  only  nibbled  at  it  at  first, 
opening  at  random  and  reading  a  life  here  and 
there  —  there  are  2,579  ^ves  m  ^  altogether  —  and 
I  was  never  disappointed.  And  then  I  began 
to  take  it  seriously,  and  now  I  know  something 
of  its  merits  and  for  awhile  am  measuring  man- 
kind by  a  Chinese  standard. 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED          25 

It  is  the  model  of  biographical  dictionaries.  I 
have  long  possessed  our  own  Dictionary  of  National 
Biography,  in  how  many  weighty  volumes?  Sixty- 
two,  including  the  Errata;  but  after  the  dry,  epi- 
grammatic conciseness  of  Dr.  Giles  it  is  unreadable. 
To  this  sage  appraiser  of  Chinese  genius  and 
address  all  meritorious  men  come  alike  —  whether 
statesmen,  cynics,  sorcerers,  or  saints.  He  never 
questions:  he  merely  puts  on  record  in  brief 
credulous  sentences  their  characters  and  deeds. 
When  all  is  said,  it  is,  I  suppose,  their  imperturb- 
ability and  saturnine  humour  that  are  the  most 
engaging  qualities  of  the  Chinese.  They  could 
not  have  found  a  better  celebrant,  or  one  more  in 
tune  with  themselves,  than  Dr.  Giles.  He  sets 
down  everything  gravely,  and  is  as  kind  to  the 
supernatural  as  to  the  natural.  The  sole  qualifi- 
cation for  admission  into  the  Gilesian  Valhalla  is 
merit. 

The  book's  brevity  is  its  great  charm.  It  was 
Henri  Taine,  I  think,  who  said  that  there  was 
no  volume  he  could  not  compress  into  a  chapter, 
and  no  chapter  that  would  not  go  into  a  sentence. 
Dr.  Giles  has  carried  out  Taine's  thrasonical  brag. 
There  is  no  Chinese  lifetime,  however  crowded  and 
illustrious,  that  he  cannot  pack  into  a  paragraph  or 
a  page.  Nor  does  anything  strike  one  as  wanting. 
One  could  do  with  more,  of  course,  and  yet  who 
would  have  the  olive  larger?  There  is  no  blemish 
on  this  work  save  its  prohibitive  weight  as  a  bed 
book,  and  that  I  have  overcome  by  cutting  it 
into  four  pamphlets. 


26  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  find  a  disdain  for  worldly  advantage  among 
these  pagan  Celestial  philosophers  that  makes  a 
more  reasonable  ideal  for  some  of  our  Western 
plutocrats  to-day  than  many  that  are  placed  before 
them  in  the  professional  pulpit.  A  few  Englishmen 
have  had  a  similar  whimsical  unworldliness,  but 
they  are  few  and  far  between.  I  imagine  that 
J.  K.  Stephen  had,  for  one,  and  the  Shelley  that 
emerges  from  certain  of  Hogg's  pages.  A  glitter- 
ing example  of  the  humorous  romantic  detachment 
and  carelessness  of  public  opinion  that  I  mean  is 
Chang  Chih-ho,  of  the  eighth  century  A.D.,  who 
spent  his  time  in  angling,  but  used  no  bait,  his 
object  not  being  to  catch  fish.  When  Lu  Yu 
asked  him  why  he  roamed  about,  Chang's  answer 
was  instant:  "With  the  Empyrean  as  my  home, 
the  bright  moon  my  constant  companion,  and  the 
four  seas  my  inseparable  friends  —  what  mean  you 
by  roaming?"  and  when  a  friend  offered  him  a 
comfortable  home  instead  of  his  poor  boat,  he 
replied,  "I  prefer  to  follow  the  gulls  into  cloud- 
land  rather  than  bury  my  ethereal  self  beneath 
the  dust  of  the  world."  Isn't  that  fine? 

There  should  certainly  be  a  Chang  Chih-ho 
Society.  The  spread  of  such  roseate  impractic- 
ableness  would  do  no  harm  at  all.  Indeed,  the 
crying  need  for  the  moment  in  this  country, 
as  in  America,  is  a  gospel  of  poverty  to  cope 
with  the  gospel  of  riches  that  is  vitiating  society. 
Sufficient  exemplars  for  preachers  of  this  new 
evangel  could  probably  be  found  in  Dr.  Giles's 
pages  alone,  but  if  others  were  needed  there  is 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED          27 

always  the  wise  and  silent  India  in  reserve.  Yang 
Ksiung,  a  poet  of  the  first  century  B.C.  (note  the 
period),  would  be  one  high  among  them.  On  the 
completion  of  Yang's  most  famous  work,  "  a  wealthy 
merchant  of  the  province  was  so  struck  by  its 
excellence  that  he  offered  to  give  100,000  cash  if 
his  name  should  merely  be  mentioned  in  it.  But 
Yang  answered  with  scorn  that  a  stag  hi  a  pen  or 
an  ox  hi  a  cage  would  not  be  more  out  of  place 
than  the  name  of  a  man  with  nothing  but  money 
to  recommend  him  in  the  sacred  pages  of  a 
book." 

Another  recluse,  Chdo  Fu,  who  flourished  B.C. 
2,357,  to°k  to  the  branches  of  the  trees  to  be 
removed  as  far  as  possible  from  contact  with  the 
world.  "  Yao  offered  him  the  throne,  but  he  declined 
and  immediately  went  and  washed  his  ears  to  free 
them  from  the  defilement  of  such  worldly  con- 
tamination," nor  would  he  let  his  calves  drink  of 
the  water. 

Not  the  least  interesting  and  instructive  thing 
about  this  work  is  its  record  of  virtue,  genius,  and 
fortitude  of  not  only  a  non-Christian  people  but  to 
a  large  extent,  as  we  understand  it,  a  non-civilised 
people. 

Another  eminent  pagan  was  Chang  Chen-chou, 
of  the  seventh  century  A.D.,  who,  on  being  ap- 
pointed Governor  of  Shu-chou,  "proceeded  to  his 
old  home  and  spent  ten  days  hi  feasting  his  re- 
latives and  friends.  Then  calling  them  together, 
he  gave  to  each  a  present  of  money  and  silk,  and 
took  leave  of  them  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  saying, 


28  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

'We  have  had  this  pleasant  time  together  as  old 
friends.  To-morrow  I  take  up  my  appointment 
as  Governor;  after  that  we  can  meet  no  more.' 
The  result  was  an  impartial  and  successful 
administration." 

Of  Chen  Shih,  A.D.  104-187,  who  was  also 
famous  for  his  probity,  a  pleasant  story  is  told. 
On  one  occasion  "when  a  thief  had  hidden 
himself  among  the  roof-beams,  he  quietly  called 
together  his  sons  and  grandsons,  and  after  a  short 
moral  lecture  pointed  up  at  the  thief,  saying,  'Do 
not  imitate  this  gentleman  on  the  beam.'  The 
latter  was  so  touched  that  he  came  down  and 
asked  forgiveness,  promising  to  lead  an  honest 
life  for  the  future,  and  departing  joyfully  with  a 
present  of  money." 

Another  sage  was  Sun  Fang,  of  the  twelfth 
century  A.D.,  an  Imperial  physician,  who  called 
himself  the  Hermit  of  the  Four  Stops.  He  ex- 
plained this  to  mean  that  when  he  had  taken  his 
fill  of  plain  food,  he  stopped;  when  he  had  put 
on  enough  plain  clothes  to  keep  himself  warm,  he 
stopped;  when  he  had  realised  a  fair  proportion 
of  his  wishes,  he  stopped;  and  finally,  after  grow- 
ing old,  free  from  covetousness  or  envy,  he  would 
also  be  prepared  to  stop. 

With  him  may  be  coupled  Ping  Chi,  who  died 
B.C.  55,  at  the  time  that  our  tight  little  island  was 
being  invaded  by  the  Romans.  "In  63  he  was  en- 
nobled as  Marquis,  and  in  59  became  Minister  of 
State.  The  following  story  is  told  of  his  acumen. 
One  spring  day  he  came  upon  a  crowd  of  brawlers, 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED         29 

among  whom  were  several  killed  and  wounded ;  but 
he  took  no  notice  of  them  and  passed  on.  Soon 
afterwards  he  saw  an  ox  panting  violently,  and 
at  once  showed  the  greatest  concern.  'For,'  as 
he  explained,  'the  brawlers  can  be  left  to  those 
whose  business  it  is  to  deal  with  such  matters; 
whereas  an  ox  panting  in  spring  means  that  heat 
has  come  before  its  time,  and  that  the  seasons  are 
out  of  joint,  thus  opening  a  question  of  the  deepest 
national  interest.'" 

Among  the  philosophers  I  like  Yin  Hao,  who, 
when  he  failed  to  grapple  with  the  rebellion  of 
Yao  Hsiang,  was  impeached  for  incompetence 
and  cashiered.  "He  took  his  punishment  without 
complaint,  except  that  he  spent  his  days  in  writing 
with  his  finger  in  the  air  the  four  words  '  Oh !  oh  1 
strange  business!'"  Sang  Wei-han  had  philosophy 
of  another  kind:  "He  was  short  of  stature,  with 
a  long  beard;  but  used  to  stand  before  a  mirror 
and  say,  '  One  foot  of  face  is  worth  seven  of  body.' 
At  the  same  time,  he  was  so  hideously  ugly  that 
the  very  sight  of  him  made  people  sweat,  even  in 
mid-winter." 

Chinese  thoroughness  is  also  worth  some 
attention  in  the  West.  Look  at  Chi  Cha'ng.  Chi 
Cha'ng  was  an  archer  who  arrived  at  proficiency 
by  painful  measures.  "He  began  by  lying  for 
three  years  under  his  wife's  loom,  in  order  to  learn 
not  to  blush.  He  then  hung  up  a  louse,  and 
gazed  at  it  for  three  years,  until  at  length  it 
appeared  to  him  as  big  as  a  cart-wheel.  After 
this,  he  is  said  to  have  been  able  to  pierce  through 


30  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  heart  with  an  arrow."  Another  conscientious 
model  was  Liu  Hstin,  who  died  A.D.  521,  and 
"who  read  all  night,  having  a  lighted  twist  of 
hemp  arranged  in  such  a  way  as  to  burn  his 
hair  if  he  began  to  nod  from  drowsiness." 

Chang  I,  who  died  B.C.  310,  a  political  ad- 
venturer, and  eventually  Prime  Minister,  had  a 
certain  dry  humour.  "It  is  recorded  that  in  his 
early  life,  after  a  banquet  at  the  house  of  a 
Minister  of  Ch'u,  at  which  he  had  been  present, 
he  was  wrongly  accused  of  stealing  some  valuable 
gem,  and  was  very  severely  beaten.  On  his 
return  home,  he  said  to  his  wife,  'Look  and  see 
if  they  have  left  me  my  tongue.'  And  when  his 
wife  declared  that  it  was  safe  and  sound,  he  cried 
out,  'If  I  still  have  my  tongue,  that  is  all  I 
want.'" 

Here  is  humour  again:  Tung-fang  So,  a 
censor  in  the  first  century  B.C.,  "on  one  occasion 
drank  off  some  elixir  of  immortality  which  be- 
longed to  the  Emperor,  and  the  latter  in  a  rage 
ordered  him  to  be  put  to  death.  But  Tung-fang 
So  smiled  and  said,  'If  the  elixir  was  genuine, 
your  Majesty  can  do  me  no  harm;  if  it  was  not, 
what  harm  have  I  done?'" 

Of  Chao  Kao,  who  died  B.C.  207,  a  famous 
rebel,  we  have  this  sinister  variant  of  Andersen's 
story  of  the  Emperor's  new  clothes:  "Tradition 
says  that  on  one  occasion,  in  order  to  discover 
which  of  the  officials  at  the  Court  of  Hu  Hai,  the 
Second  Emperor,  would  be  likely  to  defy  him,  he 
presented  the  Emperor  with  a  stag,  saying  that  it 


THE  HAUNTS  OF  MEN  REVISITED          31 

was  a  horse.  His  Majesty,  bewildered  by  the 
absurdity  of  the  statement,  appealed  to  his 
surrounding  courtiers.  Those  who  were  bold 
enough  to  say  that  it  was  a  stag  were  marked  down 
by  Chao  Kao  for  destruction." 

Are  they  not  an  interesting  company?  Let 
me  end  this  taste  by  the  celebration  of  one  of  the 
most  attractive  of  all  —  Ch'Sn  Tsun.  Ch'6n  Tsun, 
who  died  A.D.  25,  was  distinguished  as  a  letter- 
writer,  but  still  more  famous  for  his  love  of  good 
company.  That,  however,  is  nothing:  the  char- 
acteristic that  fills  me  with  pleasure  is  the  follow- 
ing: "He  used  to  keep  his  guests  with  him,  even 
against  their  will,  by  throwing  the  linch-pins  of 
their  carriages  into  a  well."  What  a  delightful 
trait  —  or,  rather,  habit ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

DESCRIBING      MR.    AND    MRS.     DUCKIE, 
ALF  PINTO,   BEATRICE,   AND   ERN 

MRS.  DUCKIE  has  only  one  fault.  Her 
virtues  are  many,  chief  among  them  an 
almost  fervid  cleanliness,  displaying  itself  in  the 
spotlessness  of  the  rooms  and  an  affection  for 
fresh  towels  that  is  Continental  —  certainly 
very  un-English.  She  believes,  too,  in  open 
windows,  to  a  point  inconceivable  in  a  retired 
cook. 

But  she  has  a  fault,  and  that  is  talkativeness — 
more  than  talkativeness,  for  she  spins  a  kind  of 
gummy  web  of  words  from  which  the  listener, 
unless  he  is  more  ruthless  than  I  can  be,  has  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  disentangling  himself.  The 
law  of  association  governing  her  mind,  as  it  does 
that  of  so  many  feminine  talkers,  one  thing  leads 
to  another.  To  me,  who  have  nothing  to  do  — 
who  am  out,  so  to  speak,  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  occupy  a  stall  in  the  theatre  of  life  and 
watch  the  play  —  this  does  not  matter  very  much, 
and  I  have  already  learned  the  trick  of  listening 

32 


DESCRIBING  THE  DUCKIES  33 

with  one  ear  only,  and  making  by  a  natural  reflex 
action  the  expected  sounds  due  from  common 
politeness;  but  I  can  imagine  it  driving  another 
and  busier  man  mad,  and  I  wonder  what  Mr. 
Dabney's  short  way  with  her  is. 

Mrs.  Duckie's  family  consists  of  three  children 
and  a  husband.  They  are  quite  prosperous,  for 
two  of  the  children,  now  grown  up,  keep  them- 
selves, and  Mr.  Duckie  does  well  enough  as  head 
waiter  in  a  Fleet  Street  chop  house  of  the  old 
type.  The  eldest  son  indeed  more  than  keeps 
himself,  for  he  has  latterly  become  a  celebrity 
and  earns  the  income  of  at  least  an  Under 
Secretary  —  almost  that  of  the  President  of  the 
Local  Government  Board,  to  whom  I  have  no 
doubt  he  has  in  his  time  made  many  success- 
ful sarcastic  allusions.  For  Herbert  Duckie  (to 
give  him  his  baptismal  name)  is  a  music-hall 
singer. 

The  mild  syllables  uttered  over  the  child  by 
the  curate  at  the  font  some  five-and-twenty  years 
ago  are,  however,  unknown  to  London,  on  whose 
placards  Herbert  Duckie  figures  more  provoca- 
tively as  Alf  Pinto.  Of  this  pseudonym  his 
mother  is  rightly  proud,  for  there  is  more  in  it 
than  meets  the  casual  eye.  Much  thought  went 
to  its  architecture,  Alf  standing  not  only  for  an 
abbreviation  of  Alfred,  but  signifying  also  a  moiety, 
and  Pinto  being  pronounced  humorously  by  the 
initiate  with  the  "i"  long  —  thus  convivially  sug- 
gesting a  measure  of  the  national  beverage.  The 
joke  is  not  original,  I  fear,  for  I  remember  it  in 


34  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

a  delightful  travesty  of  poor  Ouida;  but  it  seems 
to  have  been  genuinely  evolved  afresh  by  young 
Duckie  and  his  friends. 

His  father  and  mother  are  naturally  proud  of 
him,  for  in  addition  to  his  fame  and  his  con- 
siderable salary,  he  has  the  kindly  filial  habit 
of  driving  up  to  the  house  on  fine  Sunday 
afternoons  in  a  dogcart  and  taking  some  of  the 
family  noticeably  in  it  to  Epping,  or  the  Welsh  Harp, 
or  Richmond. 

Mrs.  Duckie's  attitude  to  her  gifted  son  is 
reverential  and  wondering.  She  is  proud  of  his 
shining  gifts  and  success,  and  perplexed  at  his 
possession  of  them;  although,  as  she  says,  it  comes 
from  her  side,  grandfather  being  that  musical,  and 
her  Uncle  Will  a  terrible  one  to  notice  and  make 
jokes. 

How  true  it  is  that  honour  can  come  from  our 
friends  quite  as  much  as  from  our  personal  attain- 
ments —  often,  perhaps,  more.  Dollie  Heathcote, 
I  feel  sure,  has  hitherto  looked  upon  me  as  a 
harmless  old  buffer,  hopelessly  out  of  date,  but 
amiable  enough,  and  possibly  a  person  to  be 
conciliated  in  view  of  my  kinship  with  his 
chosen  family.  But  when  one  evening  at  dinner 
I  asked  him  casually  if  he  knew  Alf  Pinto,  respect 
for  me  began  to  grow,  and  when  I  went  on  to 
say  that  I  had  met  Alf  Pinto  and  conversed  with 
him,  he  was  at  my  feet. 

"Not  the  Alf  Pinto?"  he  said.  "Not  the  man 
who  sings  'He  isn't  so  pleased  as  he  was'?" 

"The  same,"  I  said. 


DESCRIBING  THE  DUCKIES  35 

He  asked  me  feverishly  how  I  knew  him,  but 
I  am  not  quite  so  green  as  that.  If  I  told  Dollie 
that  Alf  Pinto  was  my  landlady's  son,  all,  or 
nearly  all,  the  gilt  would  be  off  the  gingerbread. 
So  I  made  a  mystery  of  it,  and  the  young 
gentleman  went  off  to  a  dance  baffled  but  still 
reverent. 

He  did  not,  however,  go  before  we  had  arranged 
an  evening  together  at  the  Frivoli  to  hear  Alf  and 
other  stars;  and  also  not  before  I  was  able  to 
enlighten  him  as  to  the  true  esoteric  pronunciation 
of  Alf's  name. 

"I  notice,"  I  said,  "that  you  call  him  Alf 
Pinto.  Isn't  that  rather  a  confession  of  weak- 
ness on  your  part?  I  thought  you  were  in 
the  very  innermost  and  most  knowledgable 
know." 

Dollie  looked  —  for  him  —  abashed.  "Why, 
what  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

I  then  explained  the  mystery. 

"By  Jove!"  said  Dollie,  "that's  clever!  It's 
one  of  the  dodgiest  things  I  ever  heard.  'Alf 
Pinto'!  Ripping!" 

He  went  away  in  a  taxi,  rolling  the  morsel  of 
wit  on  his  appreciative  tongue. 

The  other  Duckie  children  are  Beatrice  and 
Em.  Beatrice  is  twenty-two;  Ern  is  thirteen. 
Beatrice  is  also  connected  with  the  footlights, 
being  dresser  to  Miss  Azure  Verity,  the  actress 
who  is  just  now  drawing  all  London  (as  we  say) 
to  the  Princess's  to  see  her  hi  the  part  of  Selma 
Origen  in  Mr.  Operin's  new  play. 


36  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  sometimes  wonder  what  Mrs.  Duckie  would 
make  of  Browning's  lines  — 

"Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel: 
Whom  to  please?     You  whisper  'Beatrice'"  — 

for  to  her  proud  maternal  tongue  this  beautiful 
name  is  a  dissyllable  —  Be-trice ;  and  of  Be-trice's 
intimacy  with  Miss  Verity  I  hear  much  every 
morning,  together  with  quotations  from  that  lady's 
conversation,  and  tales  of  her  successes  with 
society. 

Be-trice  also,  I  find,  has  abandoned  her 
patronymic.  In  the  profession  to  which  she 
belongs  so  completely  as  to  feel  entitled  to  refer 
to  our  leading  actresses  by  their  last  names  only 
—  on  the  first  occasion  on  which  we  met,  she 
spoke  casually  of  Terry,  thereby  meaning,  to 
my  horror  and  shame,  the  incomparable  Ellen  — 
in  that  profession  Be-trice  is  not  known  as  Miss 
Duckie  but  as  Miss  Lestrange. 

As  for  Em,  he  is  a  healthy  young  London  boy, 
with  all  its  scepticism  and  slang  at  his  fingers'  ends. 
Mrs.  Duckie  wants  him  to  be  a  civil  engineer: 
Mr.  Duckie  believes  in  trade,  and  fancies  among 
trades  none  so  much  as  that  of  the  butcher. 
"An  engineer,"  says  Mrs.  Duckie,  "is  more 
gentlemanly."  "But,"  says  Mr.  Duckie,  speaking 
with  experience,  "whatever  happens,  people 
must  eat;  the  last  thing  they  give  up  is  their 
victuals.  No  doubt,"  he  says,  "engineering  is 
useful;  but  look  at  the  money  it  costs  to  learn  it, 
and  look  at  the  competition  afterwards.  Whereas 
I  can  get  the  boy  into  a  first-class  butcher's 


DESCRIBING  THE  DUCKIES  37 

to-morrow,  and  what's  more,  I  can  be  of  use  to 
him  myself.  How  could  I  help  him  in  his 
engineering?  But  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't, 
there  isn't  a  better  judge  of  a  steak,  point  or 
rump,  or  a  chop,  mutton  or  pork,  than  me  in 
London." 

Ern  himself,  I  need  hardly  say,  is  opposed  to 
both  callings.  At  present  he  has  but  one  ambi- 
tion, and  that  is  to  be  a  shover.  His  only  real 
employment  so  far  has  been  parcel-packing  for 
Mr.  Bemerton  on  the  few  days  each  month 
following  the  publication  of  his  catalogue.  Great 
days  downstairs,  I  can  tell  you,  and  sometimes 
twenty  telegrams  in  a  morning. 

I  have  now  described  all  the  fauna  of 
Bemerton's  except  one  —  the  waterman  —  who, 
however,  does  not  come  indoors  but  lends 
redolence  to  the  exterior.  The  waterman  tends 
the  cab  rank  and  incidentally  runs  errands  for 
the  neighbourhood.  London  is  rich  in  such 
wastrels,  whose  career  is  all  behind  them.  They 
have  no  doubt  begun  reputably  enough  in  this 
or  that  trade,  drifted  into  the  drink  habit,  and 
steadily  filed  through  one  employ  after  another 
until  they  have  nothing  left  but  the  street  corner 
when  they  are  out  of  pence,  and  the  public  bar 
when  pence  come  their  way. 

This  man  alternately  drinks  and  shivers.  His 
clothes  are  thin  useless  things  hi  which  he  wraps 
himself.  He  stands  at  the  corner  and  beats  his 
arms;  looks  up  each  street;  walks  a  few  steps; 
exchanges  the  time  of  day  with  a  cabman; 


38  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

and  disappears  into  the  "Goat  and  Compasses" 
again. 

One  of  the  enduring  problems  to  the  social 
observer  is,  Where  do  poor  men  find  so  much 
money  for  beer?  When  it  comes  to  that,  I 
suppose  that  the  basic  question  of  civilised  life 
is,  How  on  earth  can  the  Blanks  afford  to  live 
as  they  do?  But  the  riches  of  the  poor  are  only 
a  little  less  astonishing  than  the  riches  of  one's 
neighbours.  This  man  seems  to  be  dependent 
for  his  earnings  on  the  good-nature  of  a  few 
cabmen  and  very  infrequent  employment  by  the 
residents  of  the  neighbourhood.  I,  for  example, 
have  given  him  odd  tips  for  fetching  me  taximeter 
cabs.  And  yet  he  seems  rarely  to  want  the  means 
to  realise  his  one  remaining  and  —  considering  how 
little  he  can  have  to  remember  with  joy,  I  must 
confess  —  exceedingly  reasonable  ambition,  which 
is  to  keep  fuddled.  When  all  is  said  against 
alcohol,  there  remains  the  unassailable  fact  that 
it  is  the  poor  man's  best  accessible  anodyne.  The 
poet's  line  — 

"Let  us  be  drunk  and  for  a  while  forget," 

contains  the  whole  philosophy  of  intoxication. 

Possibly  the  landlord  of  the  "God  encom- 
passeth"  is  lenient  with  him  in  the  matter  of  pay- 
ment, for  the  waterman  is  certainly  the  cause  of 
much  forgetting  in  others.  For  with  all  his  ruined 
air  and  deplorable  condition  he  seems  to  be  a  com- 
panionable man.  He  has  popularity  in  his  way. 
Men  at  work  he  watches  with  extraordinary  intel- 


DESCRIBING  THE  DUCKIES  39 

ligence  and  camaraderie:  no  robin  by  a  wood- 
shed does  it  better.  And  he  seems  to  know  what 
to  say  to  them.  When  the  road  was  up  for  new 
electric  wires,  he  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the 
party.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  was  the 
best  after-breakfast  talker  in  London. 

He  is  always  cold  and  manifestly  a  sick  man; 
but  he  has  that  wonderful  gift  of  the  London 
idler  of  never  being  so  ill  that  it  is  necessary  to 
stay  at  home.  Home,  do  I  say?  It  is  a  word 
which,  we  are  too  often  told,  the  English  have  and 
the  French,  to  their  eternal  loss,  have  not;  but  I 
should  not  like  to  see  the  inside  of  the  waterman's 
sanctuary.  It  is  perhaps  wiser  to  be  careful  how 
we  pity  the  French.  I  have  seen  his  wife:  for  she 
brings  him  dinner  hi  a  bowl  —  a  dispirited,  broken 
woman.  But  his  children?  It  is  too  horrible  a 
thought. 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.    DABNEY  OF    THE    BALANCE   LETS 
HIMSELF  GO 

I  HAD  not  long  been  over  Bemerton's  when 
Mrs.  Duckie  knocked  at  the  door  to  ask  if 
Mr.  Dabney,  the  gentleman  upstairs,  the  gentle- 
man on  the  press,  might  have  a  few  words  with 
me. 

Of  course  I  said  yes,  and  in  a  minute  or  so  he 
came  in  —  a  man  of  the  ordinary  age  in  London 
just  now,  clean  shaved,  with  prematurely  grey 
hair,  a  slightly  discontented  expression,  and  a 
sensitive,  critical  mouth. 

He  made  the  usual  apologies  that  a  well-bred 
man  makes  to  a  stranger  with  whom  he  in- 
tends to  be  friendly,  and  attributed  his  visit  to 
a  remark  of  Mrs.  Duckie's  to  the  effect  that  I 
had  been  living  in  Buenos  Ayres  since  1875  and 
had  only  just  returned.  "It  seemed  to  me,"  he 
added,  "that  to  an  observant  man  London  and 
the  English  generally  must  after  so  long  an 
exile  present  many  changes,  and  I  thought  you 
would  perhaps  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  few  ques- 

40 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         41 

tions  about  your  impressions  for  an  article  in  my 
paper." 

I  said  that  provided  my  name  was  not  men- 
tioned I  had  no  objection  whatever,  although  I 
doubted,  &c.  &c. ;  but  I  might,  as  it  happened, 
have  spared  myself  that  excursion  into  conven- 
tional false  modesty,  for  I  soon  found  that  Mr. 
Dabney  had  no  real  intention  of  interviewing  me 
at  all,  but  only  wanted  the  stimulus  of  my 
experience,  or  the  excuse  of  my  mere  existence, 
to  interview  himself.  As  he  talked  on  I  wondered 
if  that  is  the  way  that  all  interviews  by  the  more 
capable  and  thoughtful  journalists  are  done. 
May  be. 

His  paper,  it  seems,  is  The  Balance,  a  weekly 
critical  review  which  he  runs  almost  single-handed 
("Everything  that  means  anything,"  he  says,  "is 
done  by  one  man"),  the  financial  backing  coming 
from  a  source  which  he  said  he  was  not  in  a 
position  to  reveal,  to  me  or  indeed  to  any  one. 
The  Balance  has  a  circulation  of  less  than  two 
thousand;  but,  as  Mr.  Dabney  says,  every  one 
who  counts  has  to  read  it.  Its  aim  is  to  be 
sane,  impartial,  and  fearless  (the  aim  of  all  of  us), 
and  Mr.  Dabney  really  believes  that  it  achieves 
this  end;  but  his  mind,  I  should  say,  with  all  its 
vigour  and  acumen,  though  naturally  inclined  to 
justice  and  courage,  is  about  as  capable  of  imparti- 
ality as  a  prize-fighter  is  capable  of  metaphysics. 

None  the  less,  Mr.  Dabney 's  paper,  which  I 
have  since  studied  carefully,  makes  the  right 
effort,  and  it  comes  as  a  corrective  to  the  party 


42  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

organs  that  can  see  no  good  in  any  Bill  brought 
forward  by  the  other  side  at  any  time,  and 
particularly  so  when  it  chances  to  be  a  measure 
promised  vaguely  by  their  own. 

It  is  one  of  the  least  satisfactory  thoughts 
that  come  to  a  reader  of  the  papers  that  so  many 
men  with  the  gift  of  expressing  themselves  well 
and  seeing  fairly  clearly  into  things  should  be 
so  willing  to  adapt  their  intellects  to  the  party 
machine.  We  are  all,  of  course,  born,  as  the 
poet  says,  Liberal  or  Conservative;  but  from 
journalists  one  expects  a  rather  more  complex 
psychology.  We  look  to  journalists  to  see  a 
little  farther  not  only  into  the  future  but  also 
into  the  past  than  ordinary  persons.  Unhappily 
in  England  just  now,  as  I  remarked  to  Mr. 
Dabney,  thus  incurring  his  most  vitriolic  agree- 
ment, the  type  of  journalist  who  seems  to  have 
most  readers  is  permitted  to  be  the  least  sagacious 
and  the  least  independent. 

Mr.  Dabney  is  by  nature  a  pessimist  —  so  much 
so  that  one  wonders  what  he  would  do  if  any  of 
the  reforms  he  desires  were  to  come  into  force. 
He  is  one  of  those  eloquent  and  clear-sighted 
men  who  must  be  in  revolt  to  be  articulate  and 
well-directed.  He  was  for  a  long  time  leader- 
writer  on  a  daily  paper,  but  gradually  found 
himself  more  and  more  irked  by  the  necessity 
of  expressing  not  his  own  views  but  his  editor's. 
At  last,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  he  retired. 
The  circumstance  was  recorded  in  the  press  in  a 
paragraph  in  the  ordinary  way,  and  the  very  next 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         43 

day  Mr.  Dabney  received  a  letter  from  a  stranger 
asking  him  to  prepare  an  estimate  of  the  cost  of  a 
weekly  journal  that  should  represent  his  own  views 
and  contain  also  a  sufficiency  of  acceptable  various 
matter.  He  did  so,  on  the  most  disadvantageous 
scale  that  even  his  pessimism  could  devise,  and 
the  next  day  he  received  a  cheque  for  the  first 
year's  expenses  and  instructions  to  begin  at  once. 
Under  such  unworldly  conditions  was  The  Balance 
bora. 

"You  say  you  left  England  in  1875,"  Mr. 
Dabney  began.  "Then  you  are  now  in  a 
position  to  observe  some  very  curious  develop- 
ments, for  the  changes  in  London  alone  since 
that  date  have  been  extraordinary.  Our  whole 
character  seems  to  have  undergone  a  revolution. 
We  used  to  be  economical,  home-keeping:  we 
have  become  gad-abouts,  pleasure-hunters.  We 
pour  our  money  into  the  hands  of  entertainers  and 
restaurateurs.  Remember,  I  speak  of  London. 
To  what  extent  England  resembles  London  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  say.  But  London  becomes 
daily  more  hedonistic,  more  atheistic.  Plain  living 
and  high  thinking  are  discredited.  High  living  and 
low  thinking  have  it  all  to  themselves." 

Mr.  Dabney  spoke  with  concentrated  fury, 
through  his  teeth,  as  if  I  were  the  primary 
cause  of  this  calamity.  I  believe  that  of  all 
uncomfortable  conversationalists  (and  the  world 
is  full  of  them)  the  most  uncomfortable  are  those 
who  would  convert  you  to  your  own  way  of 
thinking.  This  is  Mr.  Dabney's  weakness:  he 


44  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

conceives  of  all  his  interlocutors  as  heretics  and 
antagonists. 

"But  to  what,"  I  asked  him,  "do  you  attribute 
this  effect?" 

"To  too  long  a  period  of  prosperity;  to  peace; 
and"  — he  almost  spat  the  words  from  him  —  "to 
the  modern  press.  The  new  journalism  may  not 
have  produced  it,  but  it  has  fostered  it.  Since 
you  left  England  there  has  sprung  up  a  totally 
new  press  —  a  press  that  does  not  dictate  but 
flatters;  that  finds  out  what  the  mob  wants  and 
gives  it  them.  A  press  without  any  mind  — 
nothing  but  an  infernal  instinct  for  success.  A 
press  in  the  hands  of  young  men  in  a  hurry,  with- 
out knowledge,  experience,  or  conviction.  Oppor- 
tunists, improvisers,  cynics." 

"But  surely  there  are  good  papers  too?" 

"One  or  two.  But  it  is  those  others  that  have 
the  public  ear.  They  are  the  true  organs  of  the 
democracy." 

"And  yet,"  I  said,  "at  the  last  General  Election 
did  not  these  popular  papers  lose  almost  every 
seat?" 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "that  is  so.  But  that  is  not,  I 
fear,  any  proof  of  their  want  of  influence  generally. 
Political  changes  are  deeper  than  that.  The  mob 
is  moved  politically  never  by  opinions  but  always 
by  personality.  We  don't  in  England  vote  for 
Liberals  or  Conservatives :  we  vote  for  men.  Senti- 
ment controls  us.  We  vote  for  one  man  because 
we  are  sorry  for  him;  for  another,  because  we 
once  met  him  somewhere  and  he  was  very 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         45 

pleasant;  for  another,  because  his. father's  horse 
won  the  Derby;  for  another,  because  his  opponent 
is  So-and-so  whom  we  detest.  In  England  we 
never  accept  any  one  as  a  simple  fellow-creature: 
we  must  always  fix  not  only  an  adjective  upon 
him  but  some  personal  feeling.  That  is  why 
papers  lose  their  influence  when  elections  are  on. 
But  at  other  times  they  can  be  steadily  operative 
for  good  or  bad;  they  can  vulgarise  all  they  touch 
or  dignify  it.  The  new  press  vulgarises.  Its  gods 
are  false.  It  knows  no  shame.  When  found 
out,  it  slavers.  When  chastised,  it  says,  How 
charmingly  you  use  the  whip." 

Mr.  Dabney  was  now  happy.  His  face  shone  — 
it  might  have  been  with  the  reflected  glow  of  his 
molten  words.  He  was  the  Savonarola  of  Fleet 
Street. 

"Cynicism,"  he  went  on,  "is  not  the  only  fault. 
A  gross  sensuality  has  also  come  upon  us.  A 
journalist  should  be  something  of  an  ascetic,  a 
recluse:  an  observer  from  without.  He  should 
not  be  in  the  social  machine;  he  should  not  know 
every  one.  How  can  you  keep  your  hands  clean 
if  you  know  every  one?  His  dress  suit  should 
be  rusty;  one  cannot  dine  out  without  consuming 
salt,  and  by  salt  are  we  captured.  Journalists 
now  eat  too  much  and  too  well.  It  was  a  bad 
day  for  England  when  a  journalist  first  ate  a 
plover's  egg." 

"Journalists,  hi  short,"  I  said,  "should  live  over 
Bemerton's." 

He    grunted    a    short    acknowledgment    of    my 


46  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

mild  humour,  and  continued:  "Every  nation, 
according  to  Arnold,  has  the  papers  it  deserves. 
That  is  true.  The  greater  part  of  this  nation, 
suffering  just  now  from  swelled  head  and  swelled 
stomach  and  swelled  pockets,  has  the  paper  it 
deserves.  Cynicism  and  self-esteem  run  through 
everything.  Christian  of  course  we  never  were, 
and  never  shall  be,  not  even  in  adversity;  but  we 
are  no  longer  in  the  least  afraid  of  God.  We  are 
getting  nasty,  too.  We  buy  messy  little  indecent 
novels  by  the  thousand,  as  far  removed  from 
honest  British  coarseness  as  the  poles  are  asunder. 
We  have  given  up  respecting  the  Bible. 

"  I  will  give  you  an  instance  of  our  new  cynicism, 
our  carelessness.  The  other  day,  at  one  of  the 
large  music  halls,  a  dancer  appeared  nightly  in 
nothing  whatever  but  a  skirt  of  beads,  and 
capered  as  provocatively  as  she  was  able  round  a 
waxen  head.  The  dancer  affected  to  be  Salome, 
the  daughter  of  Herodias,  while  the  waxen  head 
was  intended  for  that  of  the  decapitated  John  the 
Baptist,  the  forerunner,  if  I  remember  aright,  of 
our  Lord.  This  in  a  London  music  hall !  The 
exhibition  rapidly  became  the  rage,  and  several 
other  halls,  in  the  usual  slavish  imitative  way, 
had  their  Salomes  too.  Every  one  went  to  see 
and  applaud  the  principal  one,  including  the 
Prime  Minister,  who  subsequently,  to  mark  his 
especial  approval,  entertained  the  lady  at  10 
Downing  Street.  So  far  as  I  could  discover,  I, 
who  am  a  professed  sceptic,  was  practically  the 
only  person  in  London  whose  feelings  were 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         47 

outraged.  I  call  the  incident  deplorably  signifi- 
cant. 

"It  seemed  to  me,"  Mr.  Dabney  continued, 
"sufficiently  offensive  that  a  sacred  figure  such  as 
John  the  Baptist  —  a  figure  of  peculiar  sanctity  to 
Christians  —  should  be  subjected  to  the  indignity 
of  taking  part  hi  a  music-hall  performance  at  all, 
amid  knockabouts  and  comic  singers  and  all  the 
other  seaminesses  of  those  places;  but  it  was  far 
worse  that  English  people  of  high  position  should 
flock  to  see  it.'  For  any  head,  you  must  see, 
would  have  done  as  well.  The  girl  had  to  dance 
more  or  less  naked  to  some  waxwork  property: 
that  we  will  take  for  granted.  Then  why  not  the 
head,  say,  of  Holofernes,  who  is  only  hi  the 
Apocrypha?  The  spectacle  might  then  have 
drawn  merely  the  Leader  of  the  Opposition,  but 
it  should  have  served." 

Mr.  Dabney  smiled  a  ghastly  smile  as  he  made 
his  final  joke  and  paused  for  breath. 

"Were  there  no  protests  at  all?"   I  asked. 

"There  may  have  been  a  few,"  he  said:  "I 
was  exaggerating  a  little;  but  very  few.  Where 
were  they  to  appear?  A  press  that  lives  largely 
by  advertisements  does  not  lightly  advise  people 
to  stay  away  from  places  of  entertainment.  Do 
you  know,"  he  added,  "that  my  paper  is  the  only 
paper  hi  London  that  does  not  take  advertise- 
ments. So  long  as  there  are  advertisements  there 
cannot  be  absolutely  free  speech.  It  is  not 
humanly  possible. 

"You  may  say,"  he  went  on  (but  I  had  said 


48  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

nothing  of  the  kind.  I  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
hardly  opened  my  mouth:  he  had  given  me  no 
chance).  "You  may  say,"  he  went  on,  "that  we 
are  not  more  cynical  now  than  we  were  in  the 
days  of  the  Regency.  True,  perhaps.  But  that 
is  what  makes  it  so  serious.  Because  since  the 
Regency  we  have  had  eighty  years  or  so  of  serious- 
ness and  steady  improvement  —  the  Victorian  Era, 
with  its  fine  political  and  intellectual  and  religious 
activity,  its  Reform  Bill,  its  Tractarian  movement, 
its  Dickens  and  Carlyle,  its  Browning  and  Rus- 
kin,  its  awakening  to  new  ideas.  To-day  we  are 
steadily  going  back  on  all  that.  We  believe  only 
in  pleasure  and  success:  our  one  ideal  is  wealth." 

"Well,"  I  said,  for  I  was  getting  a  little  tired, 
and  perhaps  I  was  a  little  piqued  too  at  the  turn 
the  "interview"  had  taken,  "and  what  is  the 
remedy  for  all  this  evil?" 

"War,"  he  said.  "Nothing  more  or  less.  A 
bloody  war  —  not  a  punitive  expedition  or  '  a  sort 
of  a  war'"  (he  quoted  these  words  with  white 
fury).  "That  might  get  us  right  again." 

"At  great  cost,"  I  said. 

"A  surgical  operation,"  he  replied,  "if  the  only 
means  of  saving  life,  cannot  be  called  expensive." 

"But  supposing  we  went  under?" 

"If  we  did,  it  would  be  better  so.  Then  we 
should  begin  again  in  a  new  spirit.  Loss  would 
be  gain." 

"A  very  dreadful  form  of  cure,"  I  said. 

"True.  But  not  more  dreadful  than  the  decay 
that  comes  from  complacency.  A  nation  fight- 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         49 

ing  for  its  life  makes  for  me  a  finer  spectacle  than 
a  nation  overeating  at  a  banquet. 

"The  most  sacred  and  valuable  treasure  that 
the  English  have  lost,"  he  went  on  more  gravely, 
"is  the  capacity  for  self-denial.  The  old  figure  of 
John  Bull  was  never  to  my  mind  admirable.  He  not 
only  looked  too  secure  in  his  own  wealth  and 
rectitude  but  too  apoplectic.  But  he  was  a  better 
national  symbol  for  the  English  than  the  new 
John  Bull  that  one  would  have  to  draw  now  were 
one  a  satirical  artist  with  critical  vision  —  a  John 
Bull  more  like  a  Maida  Vale  Jew.  John  Bull  grows 
materialistic  and  sensual.  An  anxious  war  would 
mend  that.  Set  him  fighting  for  very  existence, 
and  you  will  bring  out  his  good  qualities  again." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  I  said,  "about  war. 
Its  horrors  are  too  horrible.  What  I  think  we 
want  is  a  saint." 

"You  won't  get  one,"  said  Mr.  Dabney,  "and 
besides,  every  saint  has  a  bee  in  his  halo." 

"I  don't  know  that  that  matters,"  said  I.  "It 
is  the  bees  that  do  the  work.  The  bee  is  often 
the  most  original  part  of  the  man's  brain,  just  as 
the  skeleton  is  often  the  only  really  living  thing 
in  the  family's  cupboard.  Most  people  are  dead. 

"The  saint,"  I  went  on,  "that  England  needs 
is  a  saint  of  extraordinary  personal  magnetism  — 
a  saint  (as  I  see  it  dimly)  whom  our  young  men 
and  women  will  follow  in  enthusiastic  ecstasy; 
a  saint " 

"A  counsel  of  perfection,"  Mr.  Dabney  inter- 
rupted. "Will  your  saint  begin  as  a  curate?" 


50  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

he  inquired  icily.  "Remember  that  a  pulpit 
engaged  in  the  struggle  for  existence  is  doomed 
as  a  friend.  The  Church  to-day  is  too  much 
represented  by  angry  casuists  in  the  Commons 
and  anxious  fathers  of  families  in  the  vicarages; 
while  Nonconformity  has  become  largely  the 
preserve  of  astute  and  prosperous  journalists. 
One  listens  in  vain  for  the  unworldly  voice. 

"The  most  successful  revival  of  our  time,"  he 
continued,  "had  to  be  put  frankly  upon  a  gross 
material  basis  before  it  had  a  chance  —  General 
Booth's  progress  as  a  social  ameliorator  being 
marked  by  heartiness,  shrewdness,  and  humour, 
much  more  than  by  any  beauty  of  holiness;  while 
it  is  free  from  any  suggestion  of  pure  sacrifice, 
since  the  quid  offered  for  the  quo  is  so  splendid  — 
happiness  here  and  an  everlasting  crown  to  follow, 
in  exchange  for  giving  up  merely  a  few  oaths, 
merely  a  few  debauches,  merely  a  few  blows  on  a 
wife's  body. 

"England,"  he  continued,  "is  still  full  of  con- 
science, as  it  always  will  be;  but  its  activities 
have  of  late  become  more  and  more  altruistic.  It 
is  our  neighbours  that  we  have  become  so  careful 
for,  rather  than  ourselves.  We  spend  hours  in 
Boulter's  Lock  on  Sundays  meditating  on  the 
wisdom  of  keeping  weaker  vessels  out  of  exhibi- 
tions on  that  day,  and  statesmen  solve  knotty 
points  of  the  Licensing  Bill  over  champagne  at 
their  clubs.  Virtue  we  still  consider  the  best  goal 
for  others:  but  for  ourselves,  success.  Success 
is  the  new  god,  and  will  be,  I  suppose,  for 


MR.   DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         51 

some   time   yet,    so   zealously   is    the   altar   flame 
guarded. 

"I  think  your  plea  for  a  saint  is  very  charm- 
ing, but  I  don't  believe  in  it.  I  don't  think  the 
English  would  know  what  to  do  with  a  saint  if 
they  found  one.  Wales  might,  and  Ireland  might, 
but  not  England.  A  saint,  to  work  any  kind  of 
effect,  must  have  an  emotional,  self-forgetting 
material  to  work  upon.  There  is  very  little  here. 
Sentiment  we  have,  but  not  emotion.  And  we 
are  too  much  afraid  of  the  ridicule  of  the  people 
next  door. 

"I  have  often  amused  myself  by  speculating  on 
the  probable  reception  that  Christ  would  have 
were  he  now  to  appear  in  London.  A  character 
sketch  expressing  the  profoundest  admiration  in 
The  Daily  Mail;  his  portrait  in  The  Daily  Mirror, 
probably  beside  that  of  public  men  whom  he 
more  or  less  resembled;  a  guarded  leader  in  The 
Church  Times;  and  in  The  British  Weekly  an 
appeal  to  Nonconformists  not  to  lose  their  heads 
—  yet  —  not  until  a  little  more  was  known. 

"But  now  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Dabney,  "what 
you  have  observed  yourself.  For  it  seems  to  me 
I  have  done  most  of  the  talking." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "my  observations  have  not  been 
so  profound  as  yours.  I  have  merely  walked 
about  the  streets  and  seen  the  surface  of  things. 
Of  that  kind,"  I  said,  "the  most  noticeable  change 
that  has  struck  me  —  although  it  may,  in  common 
with  all  my  other  impressions,  be  sheer  illusion  — 
is  the  increase  of  sarcastic  facetiousness.  London 


52  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

has  always,  I  imagine,  indulged  in  this  disguise  of 
its  real  feelings  —  this  armour,  one  might  almost 
say,  against  fate  —  but  the  habit  seems  to  be  more 
diffused  than  I  remembered.  I  think  I  discern 
also  an  increase  of  genuine  cynicism,  as  indeed 
you  have  said  —  cynicism  rather  than  pessimism, 
I  should  say;  by  cynicism  meaning  a  natural 
acceptance  of  the  ills  of  life  without  grumbling  at 
them.  The  frame  of  mind  comes,  I  suppose  with 
you,  largely  from  irreligion,  materialism;  but  it 
has  been  fostered,  no  doubt,  by  the  English 
climate.  Not  that  the  English  climate  has 
changed,  but  the  English  people,  in  their  increased 
love  of  pleasure  and  pursuit  of  it,  have  come  to 
think  more  of  fine  weather  than  they  did,  and  not 
finding  it,  have  acquired  a  new  bitterness.  So  at 
least  it  amuses  me  to  fancy.  For  the  increased 
love  of  pleasure  is  visible  on  every  side." 

Mr.  Dabney  agreed  —  very  heartily,  considering 
how  little  disapproval  there  was  in  my  voice.  As 
he  seemed  in  danger  of  resuming  his  eager  and 
caustic  monologue,  I  hastily  went  on  to  say  that 
I  also  agreed  in  the  main  with  him,  but  was  dis- 
posed to  think  that  the  worst  of  the  case  was 
confined  to  London  and  that  the  great  heart  of 
the  country  was  not  cankered.  "And  even  in 
London,"  I  added,  "I  have  noticed  as  I  walked 
about  quite  a  number  of  kindly  deeds,  indicating 
that  good-heartedness  and  thought  for  others  are 
still  powerful  here.  I  watch  your  fine  fury  that 
such  things  can  be,"  I  added,  "and  I  hear  of 
preachers  lamenting  the  wickedness  of  the  world; 


MR.  DABNEY  LETS  HIMSELF  GO         53 

but  I  cannot  share  either  passion.  My  wonder 
is  that  people  are  so  good.  I  think  that  the 
courage  and  endurance  and  optimism  of  human 
beings  are  amazing.  Nothing  is  done  for  them: 
the  brave  hopefulness  with  which  they  rise 
morning  after  morning  is  dashed  by  noon;  but 
still  they  go  on,  doing  their  best.  And  the  more 
sceptical  we  grow,  surely  the  more  is  it  to  our  credit 
to  be  brave  and  decent." 


CHAPTER   VI 

MR.     BEMERTON     CONFERS     UPON     ME 
THE   FREEDOM   OF   HIS   TREASURY 

I  TOOK  an  early  opportunity  of  visiting  Mr. 
Bemerton  and  introducing  myself:  not  a 
difficult  task  with  the  Chinese  treasure  as  a 
lever,  while  the  way  had  been,  of  course,  further 
paved  by  Mrs.  Duckie,  who,  like  most  London 
matrons  of  her  class,  could  pave  the  way  to 
anything. 

Mr.  Bemerton  is  a  kind-looking  man  of  about 
sixty,  a  bachelor.  He  is  very  short,  clean-shaven, 
with  silver-rimmed  spectacles  and  white  hair.  An 
alert  and  contented  man.  He  has  been  in  the 
second-hand  book  business,  he  tells  me,  all  his 
life,  having  begun  as  an  errand  boy  at  Sotheby's. 
He  set  up  for  himself  thirty  years  ago,  and  has 
done  well  enough,  never  rising  quite  to  a  first 
folio  nor  descending  much  to  remainders,  but 
maintaining  a  steady  mean  between  these  two 
extremes.  He  has  probably  never  read  through 
a  whole  volume  in  his  life;  but  he  knows  some- 
thing about  most.  He  has  a  knack  of  dipping 

54 


FREEDOM  OF  A  TREASURY  55 

which  had  he  been  born  an  author  instead  of  a 
bookseller  might  have  made  his  fortune  as  a 
popular  scholar  and  even  now  would  qualify  him 
for  a  librarianship  almost  anywhere.  Libraries, 
however,  he  does  not  much  esteem.  People  should 
own  their  books,  he  holds ;  but  that,  of  course,  is 
a  counsel  of  perfection,  or  would  be  were  it  not 
for  the  multitude  of  reprints  that  are  now  to  be  had 
at  the  price  of  a  cigar. 

Mr.  Bemerton's  only  sign  of  impatience  or 
intolerance  is  displayed  when  he  is  reminded  by 
customers  of  the  cheapness  of  the  modern  reprint ; 
but  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  explain  that  it 
is  not  for  an  instant  the  result  of  any  commercial 
self-protection  on  his  part,  for  his  soul  is  without 
clay,  but  the  genuine  distaste  of  the  born  explorer 
for  a  well-mapped  country.  What  can  become  of 
book-hunting,  he  asks,  if  everything  is  reprinted 
in  uniform  binding  for  a  shilling  or  sixpence? 
He  does  not  often  make  an  epigram  —  his  mind  is 
too  candid — but  he  came  near  it  when  he  said 
the  other  day  that  the  test  of  a  good  book  was 
that  it  was  not  reprintable  in  any  series.  "Let  us 
pray,"  he  said,  "that  the  best  things  continue  to 
drop  through  this  net." 

How  a  man  who  can  afford  a  few  shillings  can 
read  in  a  modern  mechanical  reprint  an  old  book 
still  accessible  in  its  stout  original  honest  paper 
and  clear  print,  with  the  good  smell  of  years  about 
it,  he  fails  to  understand.  "Do  you  know,"  he 
says,  "that  most  of  the  books  published  to-day 
—  and  all  the  cheap  ones  —  will  have  perished  in 


56  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

less  than  a  hundred  years?  The  paper  will  fall  to 
pieces." 

I  should  say  that  not  the  least  interesting 
part  of  his  shop  is  the  case  in  which  he  keeps 
those  books  which  are  too  good  to  be  reprinted 
for  a  shilling.  What  are  they?  Not  for  any- 
thing would  I  divulge  their  titles;  but  we  know, 
he  and  I.  The  time  has  come  for  book-lovers  to 
keep  secrets. 

Mr.  Bemerton  has  had  his  triumphs;  but  he  does 
not  want  them.  He  wants  to  progress  smoothly 
in  the  middle  way.  Yet  he  has  discovered  two 
or  three  valuable  MSS.  which  brought  him  some 
hundreds  of  pounds  from  English  collectors  and 
would,  had  he  been  willing  to  sell  them  to  America, 
have  produced  ten  times  as  much:  and  among 
his  regular  customers  was  Mr.  Gladstone,  who, 
when  he  was  at  No.  10  Downing  Street  during 
his  last  term  of  office  as  Premier,  often  looked 
in  and  always  found  something.  It  was  almost 
impossible  for  a  book  to  carry  no  association  for 
that  swooping,  pouncing  brain.  He  either  knew 
it,  or  knew  of  it,  or  had  always  wanted  to  know  it. 

It  was  Mr.  Gladstone  who  made  the  suggestion 
to  Mr.  Bemerton  that  booksellers  should  open  at 
night.  "The  time  for  second-hand  book-shops," 
he  said,  "is  after  one's  work,  not  during  one's 
work.  I  should  like  to  stroll  round  this  way 
after  the  House  rose,  even  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  and  spend  a  quarter  of  an  hour  by 
your  shelves.  So  would  most  of  the  Members  of 
both  Houses.  It  would  pay  you." 


FREEDOM  OF  A  TREASURY  57 

'If  you  will  announce  it,  sir,  in  a  speech,  I 
will  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Bemerton,  and  the  great 
man  laughed. 

The  last  book  that  Mr.  Gladstone  bought  was 
Hartley  Coleridge's  Northern  Worthies.  "A  good 
book,"  said  he,  "but  it  might  have  been  better. 
Hartley  would  have  written  better  had  he  been 
his  father's  grandson  instead  of  son.  He  was 
too  near." 

Mr.  Bemerton  ventured  to  suggest  that  perhaps 
he  was  too  near  Wordsworth  also.  "Oh  no,"  said 
Mr.  Gladstone.  "He  parodied  him,  and  once  he 
stole  a  leg  of  mutton  from  his  larder,  for  a  joke. 
That  shows  that  Wordsworth  could  do  him  no 
harm." 

Mr.  Gladstone  is  Mr.  Bemerton's  trump  card, 
but  he  tells  me  that  Carlyle  came  in  once,  but 
once  only.  He  bought  Evelyn's  Life  of  Mrs. 
Godolphin  in  Pickering's  edition  —  to  give,  he 
said,  to  a  foolish  young  woman;  and  he  arranged 
with  Mr.  Bemerton  to  have  it  bound  with  the 
editor's  introduction  omitted.  Mr.  Bemerton  says 
that  after  leaving  the  shop  Carlyle  returned  to 
make  certain  that  his  instructions  were  understood. 
"Be  sure  to  cut  out  the  pipe-lights!"  were  his 
exact  words.  Rather  hard  on  Samuel  of  Oxford. 

Another  customer  was  Mr.  Locker-Lampson, 
who  liked  books  to  be  slender  and  pocketable, 
but  whose  taste  was  a  little  too  fastidious  for  Mr. 
Bemerton's  shelves.  Mr.  Bemerton  treasures  an 
autograph  copy  of  Patchwork  which  its  author 
sent  him. 


58  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Mr.  Bemerton  is  assisted  by  his  niece,  Miss 
Ruth  Wagstaff,  and,  according  to  Mrs.  Duckie,  it 
is  well  that  he  is,  for  as  he  gets  older  and  less 
anxious  the  bookseller  grows  more  soft-hearted 
and  (Miss  Wagstaff's  phrase)  soft-headed.  "  Plenty 
of  soft-heartedness  and  soft-headedness  about  her, 
I  don't  think,"  says  Mrs.  Duckie  in  the  London 
sarcastic  idiom.  But  this  is  not  doing  that  young 
lady  justice.  Her  heart  and  head  are  both  good, 
but  she  feels  a  responsibility  thrust  upon  her  by 
reason  of  some  of  her  uncle's  unworldly  tendencies, 
and  this  lays  a  consequent  over-emphasis  on  her 
natural  practical  business  aptitude. 

I  have  always  had  a  respect  amounting  almost 
to  reverence  for  the  name  of  Ruth,  although  none 
of  that  more  intimate  feeling  which  would  lead 
me  to  wish  it  to  belong  to  any  of  my  own  people; 
I  have  also  always  felt  that  among  names  which 
exert  any  influence  upon  their  bearers,  Ruth  stood 
high.  Ruths  should  be  quiet,  wise,  sincere,  and 
if  not  positively  beautiful,  at  least  comely  and 
pleasant  to  look  upon.  Miss  Wagstaff  has 
shattered  this  poor  little  fabric  of  sentiment. 
Sincerity  and  candour  she  certainly  has  in  some 
abundance,  but  she  is  not  wise  except  with  the 
destructive  wisdom  that  London  imparts  to  her 
children,  and  she  is  neither  beautiful  nor  comely. 

She  sits  at  a  little  table  surrounded  by  the  best 
literature  and  reads  penny  novelettes,  but  her 
eyes  and  ears  are  never  off  duty.  If  a  poor 
woman  comes  in  to  sell  a  book,  Ruth  is  watchful 
to  prevent  Mr.  Bemerton  from  giving  too  much. 


FREEDOM  OF  A   TREASURY  59 

If  a  poor  scholar  comes  in  to  buy  one,  she  is 
equally  alert  to  prevent  Mr.  Bemerton  taking  too 
little.  At  intervals  she  walks  to  the  door  to  cast 
a  glance  at  certain  unprotected  shelves  or  curtail 
the  studies  of  the  free  readers.  These  are  her 
despair :  "  They  think  it's  a  Carnegie  library,"  she 
says  with  a  toss.  Some  day  I  shall  draw  her 
attention  to  a  little  poem  by  Mary  Lamb  on  this 
subject;  but  not  yet.  Courage  may  come. 

The  other  member  of  the  staff  is  Mr.  Joshua 
Glendinning,  who  sits  in  a  room  in  the  basement 
for  a  week  every  month  preparing  Mr.  Bemerton's 
catalogue.  Mr.  Glendinning  is  a  British  Museum 
Reading-Room  hack  who  gets  all  kinds  of  odd 
jobs  to  keep  him  going,  from  copying  sermons 
(on  Fridays  and  Saturdays)  to  collating  quoted 
passages  in  proofs  and  now  and  then  correcting 
the  Greek  and  Latin  of  a  more  fortunate  but 
less  scholarly  literary  man.  He  once,  I  learn,  was 
not  only  a  schoolmaster  but  had  a  flourishing 
school  of  his  own;  but  the  devil  of  intemperance, 
whose  wiles  for  the  overthrow  of  Christian  repu- 
tations are  permitted  to  conquer  so  easily,  was 
too  much  for  him,  and  he  gradually  and  steadily 
lost  all.  The  gentlest,  simplest  creature  at  heart, 
he  now  lives  on  a  few  pence  a  day  in  a  Rowton 
House,  wishes  no  man  ill,  save  perhaps  himself, 
carries  a  Times  dated  somewhen  hi  1893  pro- 
truding negligently  from  his  pocket  as  if  it  were 
to-day's  and  he  was  a  gentleman  on  his  way 
to  his  stockbroker's  (the  harmless  melancholy 
deception!)  and  sits  every  evening  in  the  same 


60  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

corner  of  the  same  saloon  bar  tearfully  imbibing 
gin  and  water  and  laying  plans  for  the  new  career 
which  will  begin  on  the  morrow. 

"Then  you  don't  want  to  sell  me  the  Chinese 
book  again?"  said  Mr.  Bemerton,  after  we  had 
exchanged  a  few  generalities. 

"No,"  I  said,  "certainly  not;"  and  from  Miss 
Wagstaff's  table  I  heard  what  sounded  like  a 
sarcastic  sniff  deprecative  of  her  uncle's  insanity 
in  suggesting  such  a  transaction. 

"Mrs.  Duckie,"  said  Mr.  Bemerton,  "tells  me 
that  you  sleep  badly.  If  there  are  any  books 
here  that  you  would  like  to  keep  by  your  bed, 
you  are  welcome  to  them.  The  only  thing  is,  we 
should  like  to  have  them  back  in  the  morning." 
(So  Naomi  was  among  the  prophetesses  after 
all!) 

I  accepted  the  offer  cheerfully  and  promised 
that  the  daily  restoration  should  be  my  first 
thought. 

"For  night  reading,"  said  Mr.  Bemerton,  "it 
was  Mr.  Lecky's  theory  —  Mr.  Lecky  often  came 
in  —  that  books  should  be  very  nearly  dull.  But 
it's  not  very  easy  to  find  exactly  the  right  thing." 

"What  would  you  call  a  nearly  dull  book?" 
I  asked. 

He  looked  round  for  awhile.  "This,"  he  said 
at  last,  and  he  brought  me  a  volume  of  Nichols' 
Literary  Anecdotes.  "It's  good  and  sound,  and 
now  and  then  it's  amusing,  but  it's  often  very  small 
beer.  There  isn't  a  better  bed  book  —  or  wouldn't 
be  if  only  it  was  a  little  lighter  to  hold.  The 


FREEDOM  OF  A   TREASURY  61 

curious  thing  about  it  is  that  it  is  the  one  case 
known  to  me  of  an  original  book  the  best  of  which 
is  all  in  the  footnotes.  You  take  a  volume  and 
try." 

The  world  is  very  small;  the  mistake  is,  of 
course,  ever  to  have  thought  it  large.  While  Mr. 
Bemerton  was  talking  to  another  customer,  and 
I  was  at  his  shelves  making  my  hands  very 
grubby  (as  only  old  books  can)  and  my  eyes 
very  glad  (as  old  books  can  almost  more  surely 
than  anything  else),  I  noticed  the  address  on  a 
parcel  which  Ern  had  just  finished  packing  —  Miss 
Gold,  The  Cedars,  Esher. 

"Is  Miss  Gold  one  of  your  customers?"  I 
asked. 

"Miss  Gold,"  said  Mr.  Bemerton,  "is  my  best 
customer.  She  buys  something  from  every 
catalogue,  which  is  sent  to  her  one  post  earlier 
than  any  one  else.  Do  you  know  her?" 

Do  I  know  her?  Miss  Gold  and  I  were  once 
very  nearly  .  .  . 

How  long  ago  that  was,  and  how  different 
my  life  might  have  been!  And  now?  I  must 
certainly  at  once  go  to  Esher  to  see  her  again. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RECALLS  OLD  STRUGGLES  IN  THE 
EARLY  DAYS  OF  GRACE  AND  INTRO- 
DUCES A  TYRANT  FROM  LUDLOW 

ON  Easter  Monday  I  went  with  Alderley  and 
Naomi  to  see  Lionel  play  for  a  mixed  team 
against  Surrey.  It  was  the  first  match  of  the 
year  and  bitterly  cold,  but  to  watch  real  cricket 
again  was  an  inducement  that  would  have  led 
me  to  brave  any  temperature.  For  —  think  of  it ! 
—  it  was  my  first  match  since  the  Gentlemen  v. 
Players  at  Prince's  in  1874  when  the  Gentlemen 
won  by  61  runs.  Thirty-four  years  ago!  I  was 
then  twenty-four,  and  I  went  with  my  brother 
Tom  and  saw  every  ball  bowled. 

Thirty-four  years  ago,  I  say,  and  yet  what  is 
that?  To  me  it  has  been  a  lifetime;  but  what 
has  it  been  to  that  huge  man  with  the  iron-grey 
beard?  I  had  read  his  name  in  the  papers  as 
being  among  the  players,  and  Lionel  had  shown 
me  his  letter  inviting  him  to  be  one  of  the  team; 
and  yet  it  needed  ocular  testimony  to  believe  that 
this  was  W.  G.  —  that  the  W.  G.  I  saw  make  no 

62 


63 

at  Prince's  in  that  1874  match  was  still  active  in 
the  field.  '"Time  has  run  back,'"  I  quoted  to 
Lionel,  '"and  fetched  the  Age  of  Gold';"  but 
he  was  not  listening.  Milton  is  not  much  in  his 
line. 

All  the  Gentlemen  v.  Players  matches  were 
days  of  Grace  at  that  time.  At  Prince's,  I 
remember,  G.  F.  came  off  in  the  first  innings  — 
93  not  out.  How  we  all  hoped  that  Strachan 
would  keep  his  end  up  to  let  him  get  the 
hundred,  which  meant  more  than  it  does  to-day 
and  was  not  yet  called  a  century;  but  it  was 
not  to  be.  Then  came  Ross,  but  Alfred  Shaw 
caught  and  bowled  him  at  once,  and  G.  F.'s 
chance  was  over.  If  was  G.  F.  who  in  the 
second  innings  (when  W.  G.  made  his  no) 
caused  an  odd  bit  of  trouble.  Old  Jim  Lilly- 
white  was  bowling,  with  his  beautiful  easy 
delivery  —  just  a  brief  trot  to  the  wicket  and  a 
gentle  natural  swing  of  his  left  arm.  Well,  he 
sent  up  a  ball  to  G.  F.,  who  put  it  tamely 
back  right  to  the  bowler's  hands,  or  what  would 
have  been  right  to  his  hands  had  not  W.  G. 
intervened.  W.  G.'s  intervention  did  not  mean 
then  quite  what  it  would  to-day:  he  was  not 
then  so  wide  as  a  church  door,  but  he  was 
enough;  and  before  Jim  could  get  round  the 
obstacle  the  ball  was  out  of  danger.  Poor  Lilly- 
white,  with  G.  F.'s  93  not  out  only  too  present 
to  his  mind,  appealed  first  to  one  umpire  and 
then  the  other,  but  both  held  that  W.  G.  was 
not  to  blame:  he  had  not  aggravated  his  offence 


64  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

of  bulk  by  any  conscious  action.  The  Players 
didn't  like  the  decision  at  all,  but.  G.  F.  made 
only  12,  and  the  match  was  lost  without  even 
those  runs. 

The  Players'  strongest  men  were  Harry  Jupp, 
Harry  Charlwood,  Shaw,  and  Morley.  Daft  also 
was  playing,  but  he  made  only  21.  Charlwood, 
the  Sussex  man,  came  out  top  scorer  with  85, 
not  a  few  of  them  made  by  a  stroke  which 
seems  to  have  utterly  died  away  since  then  —  a 
glance  under  the  left  leg.  He  was  very  good  at 
it,  the  little,  active,  mutton-chop-whiskered  fellow. 

My  very  first  Gentlemen  v.  Players  match 
was  in  1868.  It  was  at  Lord's,  and  W.  G.  was 
playing  then  too.  He  only  made  134  not  out, 
but  it  sufficed.  People,  I  understand,  go  to  see 
individual  cricketers  now,  but  there  can  never 
since  —  not  even  in  Ranjitsinhji's  best  days  (which 
I  missed)  —  have  been  such  excitement  and 
enthusiasm  among  the  watchers  of  the  cricket 
skies  as  in  the  late  sixties  and  early  seventies  in 
W.  G.'s  first  decade.  The  Gentlemen's  innings 
at  the  Lord's  match  in  1868  was  a  sufficient 
indication  of  the  place  in  which  this  stripling  of 
nineteen,  a  year  older  than  I  was,  stood  even 
then  —  for  his  "hand"  (as  a  few  old-fashioned 
persons  still  called  a  score)  was  134  not  out,  and 
the  whole  side  made  only  201. 

It  was  W.  G.,  too,  who  took  the  Players' 
wickets  —  6  in  the  first  innings  for  50  runs  and 
4  in  the  second  for  31.  He  is  not  bowling 
much  now,  and  he  has  come  to  field  in  the 


THE  EARLY  DAYS  OF  GRACE     65 

way  that  provokes  a  good-natured  cheer  from 
the  crowd  after  every  stopped  ball;  but  the 
shining  fact  remains  that  here  he  is  still,  in  the 
cricket  field,  an  active  man. 

As  I  watched  him  I  had  to  rub  my  eyes;  for 
it  seemed  as  if  all  my  years  of  exile,  all  my  absurd 
conscientious  attention  to  duty  in  that  far-off  alien 
land,  had  been  a  dream. 

What  has  happened  in  the  interval?  Everything 
has  happened.  The  Franco-Prussian  war;  the 
death  of  Dickens ;  the  re-establishment  of  the  French 
Republic;  the  bombardment  of  Alexandria;  the 
rise  of  the  Salvation  Army ;  the  Boer  war ;  Stevenson, 
Whistler  and  Kipling;  the  Daily  Mail;  the  assassina- 
tion of  Kings  and  Queens  and  Presidents;  the  de- 
struction of  San  Francisco.  And  all  the  while  W.  G. 
has  been  playing  cricket. 

After  1868  I  saw  every  Gentlemen  v.  Players 
match  but  two  until  I  went  to  Buenos  Ayres  at 
the  beginning  of  1875  —  in  which  time  the 
Players  won  only  once.  I  saw  I.  D.  Walker 
make  his  165  at  the  Oval  in  1868.  At  Lord's  hi  the 
following  year  I  saw  W.  G.'s  hit  for  7  off  Wootton, 
no  longer  possible  there  except  with  an  overthrow, 
and  I.  D.'s  71;  and  I  remember  what  a  hard  nut 
to  crack  Jupp  was  in  the  second  innings.  Poor 
Yardley,  who  afterwards  wrote  burlesques,  came 
into  the  match  that  year. 

But  the  1870  match  at  the  Oval  was  the  great 
one,  for  that  was  when  G.  F.  first  played,  and 
though  he  got  spectacles,  he  took  altogether 
8  wickets  for  46  runs,  and  W.  G.  made  his 

F 


66  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

215  in  the  second  innings.  As  it  happened,  it 
was  too  many,  for  it  meant  a  draw;  but  what  a 
feat  it  was! 

Two  days  later,  on  his  twenty-second  birthday, 
at  Lord's,  he  made  109.  That  was  the  closest 
match  I  ever  saw,  the  Gentlemen,  who  went  all 
to  pieces  in  their  second  innings  before  old  Jim 
Southerton  and  Farrands,  winning  by  only  4  runs. 

In  1871  at  Lord's  there  was  a  draw  again. 
W.  G.  and  Hornby  and  Yardley  and  Alfred 
Lubbock  all  did  well,  but  Ephraim  Lockwood  for 
the  Players  did  best  of  all.  This  was  the  match 
in  which  George  Freeman  took  three  wickets  in 
four  balls. 

I  missed  the  Oval  match  that  year,  and  alas! 
I  was  not  at  Brighton  to  see  W.  G.  make  his  217 
for  the  Nonpareil's  benefit;  but  I  was  at  Lord's 
in  1872  again,  when  the  champion  was  on  hand 
with  77  and  112  and  Daft  made  a  superb  102 
in  the  Players'  second  innings.  W.  G.  was  again 
in  form  on  the  next  day,  at  the  Oval,  making 
117,  while  Hornby  and  Yardley  put  on  163 
between  them. 

The  next  year  at  Lord's  the  Gentlemen  won 
almost  too  easily  —  by  an  innings  and  runs,  W.  G. 
contributing  163,  while  at  the  Oval  the  same 
thing  happened  again,  his  share  then  being  158 
and  7  wickets  for  65. 

In  those  days  you  were  almost  as  certain  to 
see  the  champion  come  off  as  you  now  are  to 
see  an  advertised  actor  perform.  He  stood  aside 
from  the  glorious  uncertainty  of  the  game. 


THE  EARLY  DAYS  OF  GRACE     67 

That  year,  1873,  gave  us  three  matches,  an 
extra  one  being  arranged  at  Prince's,  at  which 
the  Gentlemen  again  won  by  an  innings  and 
runs,  W.  G.  making  870  and  the  impaydble 
"Monkey"  104  (without  running  any  one  out, 
too,)  and  G.  F.  63.  Tom  Emmett,  I  remember, 
bowled  at  the  very  top  of  his  comic  energies, 
and  he  made  32  in  the  second  innings;  but 
Grace  and  the  influence  of  Grace  were  too  much. 

The  next  year,  1874,  at  the  Oval  W.  G. 
was  more  restrained,  but  his  countryman,  Frank 
Townsend,  made  59  and  G.  F.  28  and  47,  and 
the  "Monkey"  18  and  45,  and  all  was  well. 
Ephraim  Lockwood  carried  his  bat  right  through 
the  Players'  innings  for  67,  and  in  the  second 
innings  put  on  a  hundred  with  Jupp  before  they 
were  parted;  but  after  that  Absolom  and  Buch- 
anan began  to  see  daylight,  and  the  Gentlemen 
won  by  48  runs.  Two  days  later,  however,  at 
the  Oval  the  Players  won  for  the  first  time  since 
1866,  Lockwood  again  playing  beautifully.  I 
recall  his  cutting  as  wonderful.  W.  G.  made 
48  and  12,  the  "Monkey"  63,  and  G.  F.  22 
and  36.  In  the  second  innings  our  blood  ran 
cold  as  Hill  got  Ridley,  the  "Monkey,"  and 
I.  D.  Walker  with  successive  balls.  It  was  that 
miracle  which  won  the  match. 

And  then  came  my  Prince's  match  that  I  spoke 
of  first,  and  my  day  of  watching  first-class  cricket 
was  done.  These  were  the  only  matches  I 
allowed  myself;  for  the  rest,  I  was  busy  at  work 
or  playing  village  cricket  at  home. 


68  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

And  now  here  I  am  with  the  prospect  of 
more  Gentlemen  v.  Players  matches  (which 
are  the  best  of  all)  before  me.  It  is  almost  too 
much.  Such  happiness  seems  unrealisable :  once 
again  I  have  the  old  school  feeling  —  more  than 
feeling,  prescience  —  that  the  end  of  the  world 
will  come  before  the  holidays. 

Lionel  did  pretty  well,  but  it  was  bad  cricket 
weather,  for  there  was  a  snow-laden  wind  which 
numbed  the  fingers.  It  was,  however,  a  start: 
a  new  cricket  season  had  begun. 

I  have  since  seen  the  Gentlemen  v.  Players 
of  1908,  and  I  am  disappointed.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  inferior  cricket  of  the  Gentlemen  that 
troubled  me:  I  would  as  soon  see  the  Players 
win;  it  was  the  spirit  of  the  Gentlemen  that 
distressed  me,  or  rather  the  want  of  it.  Gentle- 
men they  may  be  in  name  and  even  station, 
but  they  no  longer  play  like  gentlemen;  they 
play  like  overworked  artisans.  Anxiety  and 
boredom  have  crept  into  cricket.  The  Gentle- 
men as  I  remember  them  took  the  field  joyously 
and  cut  a  dash.  It  was  their  pride  to  let  no 
ball  pass  them.  The  Gentlemen  to-day  are 
listless  and  without  jokes  —  almost  without  per- 
sonality. They  have  no  Grace  and,  even  more 
conspicuously  perhaps,  no  "Monkey."  It  comes, 
I  fancy,  very  largely  from  playing  too  much. 
What  was  once  a  game  is  now  a  calling;  and 
a  calling  which  involves  of  necessity  so  much 
disappointment  and  so  much  idleness  (while  wait- 
ing first  for  one's  own  innings  and  then  for  the 


69 

other  innings  of  one's  side  to  finish,  to  say  nothing 
of  rain,)  must  lead  to  a  certain  amount  of  cynicism 
and  saturnine  fatalism. 

I  don't  think  that  cricket  as  a  whole  has  im- 
proved in  these  thirty  years.  Batting,  perhaps, 
is  nearer  perfection;  but  it  is  far  less  interesting. 
The  first-class  game  seems  to  know  three  strokes 
only  —  the  late  cut,  the  off  drive,  and  the  leg  glance : 
all  good,  and  it  is  astonishing  how  many  batsmen 
can  make  them;  but  I  would  like  to  see  more 
hitting,  in  the  old  style,  where  fieldsmen  are  not. 
In  my  time  the  fieldsmen  did  not  exert  such  a 
magnetic  influence  over  the  ball  as  they  now  do, 
attracting  it  for  the  most  part  straight  to  their  hands. 

Bowling,  I  think,  is  not  so  good  as  it  was. 
Too  much  dependence  has  been  placed  on  the  fast 
bumping  men  and  five  slips,  and  the  result  is  a 
loss  in  the  more  delicate  finesse  that  was  so 
attractive  when  I  was  young  —  the  finesse  of  Shaw 
and  Southerton,  and  Jim  Lillywhite,  and  later,  as 
I  have  been  told,  of  Lohmann  and  Peel  and  Briggs. 

But  the  pendulum  is  always  swinging,  and 
personality  knows  no  law  and  may  appear  at 
any  moment;  so  I  do  not  despair.  And  it  will 
always  be  the  best  of  games. 

In  the  evening  after  Lionel's  match  I  found 
Queen  Anne's  Gate  in  despair.  The  annual  visit 
of  old  Mrs.  Wynne  — •  Grandmamma,  as  she  is 
called,  for  Margaret's  mother  (my  stepmother) 
long  since  gave  up  all  rivalry  in  the  title  —  the 
annual  visit  of  Mrs.  Wynne  has  been  fixed  for 
next  month. 


yo  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Every  one  dreads  this  yearly  fortnight  of  best 
behaviour,  but  does  not  say  so  for  fear  of  Alderley 
overhearing.  As  for  Alderley,  he  looks  forward 
to  his  mother's  visit  with  what  appears  to  be  the 
keenest  anticipation,  but  it  has  been  remarked  by 
the  family  that  never  does  he  have  so  many  public 
and  legal  dinners  as  during  its  progress.  His 
heartiness  at  breakfast  is,  however,  unbearable, 
Drusilla  says. 

Old  Mrs.  Wynne,  who  is  nearing  eighty,  if  not 
quite  that  age,  holds  decided  views  on  the  de- 
cadence of  modern  life,  cannot  forgive  the  Queen 
Anne's  Gate  celibacy,  and  has  so  capricious  a 
memory  that  while  remembering  clearly  incidents 
of  the  dim  past  she  is  often  unaware  that  she  is 
saying  now  what  she  said  with  equal  solemnity 
five  minutes  earlier. 

Her  convictions  and  foibles,  added  to  her  tire- 
less activity,  —  eighty  years  sitting  more  lightly  on 
her  shoulders  than  forty  on  those  of  many  persons, 
—  make  her  a  formidable  visitor,  especially  to 
Drusilla,  who,  being  her  favourite,  has  always  to 
be  in  attendance.  What  this  means  to  that  im- 
patient young  rebel  may  be  instantly  understood 
when  it  is  stated  that  Grandmamma's  first  excite- 
ment after  she  is  comfortably  settled  under  her 
son's  roof  is  to  visit  the  Royal  Academy  and, 
catalogue  in  hand,  conscientiously  look  at  every 
picture  long  enough  at  any  rate  to  decide  whether 
or  not  it  merits  a  pencil  mark.  When  it  is  added 
that  Grandmamma's  taste  is  governed  wholly  by 
sentiment,  that  Drusilla  is  at  the  Slade,  and  that 


THE  EARLY  DAYS  OF  GRACE      71 

the  visit  lasts  four  hours  early  in  May,  the  extent 
of  the  poor  girl's  sufferings  may  be  gauged. 

Being  a  happy  old  lady,  Grandmamma  says 
more  of  the  pictures  that  she  likes  than  of  those 
that  displease  her;  but  it  is  on  record  in  the  family 
that,  standing  before  one  of  Mr.  Sargent's  master- 
pieces, she  was  heard  by  the  whole  room  to  exclaim, 
"My  dear,  never  let  that  man  paint  me!"  her 
idea  apparently  being  that  Mr.  Sargent  pursued 
his  quarry  rather  in  the  desperate  way  that  an 
Italian  gunner  pursues  little  birds  than  was  over 
besought.  Drusilla  promised. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

I   MEET  AN  OLD   FRIEND  AND   RECEIVE 
A   LESSON   IN   PHILOSOPHY 

IT  was  not  so  easy  to  run  down  to  Esher  to 
see  Miss  Gold.  Cowardice  intervened.  It 
requires  not  a  little  courage  for  a  naturally 
diffident  and  sympathetic  person  to  renew  a 
friendship  that  thirty  years  ago  was  in  danger 
of  becoming  the  closest  of  all  intimacies  between 
a  man  and  a  woman. 

Miss  Gold  —  Agnes,  as  I  called  her  —  was  then 
a  girl  of  twenty-one  or  two,  and  I  fancy  that 
people  were  beginning  to  join  our  names.  We 
were  together  a  great  deal;  her  society  gave  me 
extraordinary  pleasure,  for  she  had  a  natural 
frankness  and  shrewdness  and  was  intellectually 
a  rebel.  To  be  a  rebel  then  was,  for  a  girl,  very 
exceptional.  Also  she  danced  beautifully  and  so 
masterfully  as  to  make  me  as  a  partner  cut  some 
kind  of  a  figure,  which  no  other  woman  could  do, 
and  she  liked  me  enough  to  give  me  three  or 
four  dances  every  evening.  Our  last  meeting  was 
at  a  party  in  Hyde  Park  Street,  I  remember,  on 

72 


I  MEET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  73 

the  last  night  of  the  year  1874  —  and  I  held  her 
hand  for  a  few  moments  longer  than  I  should.  I 
did  not  mean  anything  by  it  but  affection.  It  was 
one  of  those  sudden  impulses  to  convince  persons 
that  you  like  them  very  much  or  feel  for  them  very 
much;  but  I  believe  it  meant  more  to  her.  I 
often  regretted  it,  and  never  so  much  as  when  I 
heard  of  her  accident. 

Her  accident!  She  was  intensely  fond  of  horses, 
and  rode  every  morning.  I  have  seen  her  in  the 
Row  many  a  time  and  envied  the  men  with  her 
their  power  to  afford  a  horse.  One  day,  when  she 
was  still  a  mere  girl,  soon  after  I  left  England,  she 
was  thrown,  and  has  never  stood  upright  since. 
She  is  carried  from  her  bed  to  a  couch  and  from 
her  couch  to  bed.  That  is  her  life,  and  has  been 
these  thirty  years. 

I  can  assure  you  that  I  (who  am  still  vigorous 
and  last  saw  her  dancing)  dreaded  the  visit.  To 
see  Miss  Gold  again  was  for  long  an  unbearable 
thought,  for  I  possess  little  of  that  fortitude  in 
bearing  other  persons'  calamities  that  La  Roche- 
foucauld attributed  to  the  world  at  large. 

But  I  made  up  my  mind  at  last,  and  Naomi 
accompanied  me  to  a  flower  shop  to  buy  some 
flowers  as  an  offering. 

It  was  then  that  I  made  a  discovery  of  my 
own  with  regard  to  the  changes  that  have  come 
upon  England,  for,  looking  round  the  florist's,  I 
suddenly  realised  the  vast  increase  not  only  in 
interest  in  flowers  but  in  the  variety  of  flowers 
that  has  been  witnessed  by  the  thirty  years  and 


74  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

more  that  I  have  been  abroad.  Where  can  it 
lead?  I  have  wondered  often  since,  after  luxurious 
travels  amid  nursery  gardens  and  Temple  mar- 
quees ?  Take,  for  example,  daffodils.  In  my  youth 
there  were  daffodils  too  —  but  they  were  in  two 
varieties  only,  the  double  and  the  single.  That 
was  all.  To-day  there  must  be  hundreds,  all 
beautiful  and  all  named.  In  my  day  they  were 
not  grown  among  grass  as  now  they  are:  there 
was  no  encouragement  of  wild  exuberance  as 
one  now  sees.  No  one  said,  "How  sweet  Sir 
Watkin  looks  under  the  trees!"  How  could  they, 
for  Sir  Watkin  had  not  been  evolved. 

I  wish,  by  the  way,  that  some  one  would  call  a 
flower  after  me.  I  should  feel  that  indeed  I  had 
lived  to  some  purpose  could  I,  even  from  my 
death-bed,  raise  a  weary  head  and,  straining  my 
poor,  exhausted,  failing  auditories,  catch  the  words, 
"How  luxuriantly  the  Kent  Falconers  bloom  this 
year!"  Thus  hearing  I  could  die  in  peace. 

And  the  anemone.  That  is  a  totally  new 
discovery.  I  saw  for  fourpence  bunches  of 
anemones  of  a  deep  purple  such  as  was  never 
heard  of  in  my  time.  And  tulips  are  even  more 
wonderful.  We  had  tulips,  of  course,  but  they 
were  the  flaunting  type.  The  new  tulips  can  burn 
too,  but  also  how  sweet  and  grave  they  can  be; 
and  again,  how  cheery  and  courageous !  But 
most  of  the  new  colours  are  wonderful.  Sweet- 
peas  we  used  to  call  merely  sweet-peas  and  grow 
for  scent:  to-day  the  sweet-pea  has  a  thousand 
names  and  colours,  and  every  year,  I  am  told,  new 


I  MEET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  75 

and  exquisite  hues  find  expression  in  its  but- 
terfly bloom.  The  delphinium  again  is  a  magical 
revelation.  I  seem  to  remember  something  dingily 
like  it  —  a  larkspur  we  called  it  —  but  that  this 
flower  should  ever  adventure  so  gently  up  and 
down  the  scale  of  blue  into  the  tenderest  melodies 
—  who  would  have  expected  that?  The  del- 
phinium seems  to  me  the  perfect  flower  against 
or  under  a  grey  sky.  It  is  not  till  the  sun  has  left 
that  it  comes  to  its  delicate  own.  I  like  to  think 
of  all  the  care  and  thought  that  the  great  florists 
have  been  spending  during  my  absence  to  evolve 
this  lovely  apparition  against  my  return. 

Naomi  tells  me  that  gardening  has  become  as 
fashionable  as  motoring,  and  England  surely  is 
very  fortunate  in  this  pretty  hobby,  although  it 
hurts  me  a  little  not  only  to  think  of  what  I  missed 
by  being  born  too  soon,  but  also  to  have  such 
difficulty  in  finding  some  of  my  old  favourites. 
The  Sweet  William,  for  example,  eludes  me  in 
garden  after  garden,  and  mignonette  I  no  longer 
smell.  In  our  garden  at  home,  before  artistic 
gardening  was  heard  of,  these  were  grown 
profusely.  The  only  flower  in  which  I  see  no 
improvement  is  the  rose.  No  doubt  there  are 
beautiful  new  roses;  but  all  my  favourites  are  the 
old  ones,  and  I  do  not  find  that  the  new  roses 
smell  as  sweet.  The  cabbage  rose  remains  the 
most  satisfying  of  all. 

Miss  Gold  lives  in  a  large  and  cheerful 
Georgian  house.  Her  sitting-room  is  on  the 
ground  floor,  with  high  French  windows  uniting 


76  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

it  to  the  lawn.  Like  so  many  invalids,  she  is  far 
less  susceptible  to  cold  than  most  of  us,  and  she 
lies  there  with  the  windows  open  most  of  the  time. 
On  fine  days  she  is  wheeled  into  the  garden  itself 
or  into  the  paddock.  All  the  pretty  apparatus  for 
ingratiating  human  beings  with  birds  is  to  be 
seen  hi  the  garden  —  the  bath  and  the  nest  boxes 
and  the  cocoanut  for  the  tits.  This  means,  of  course, 
the  privation  of  a  cat;  but  instead  of  a  cat  Miss 
Gold  keeps  several  dogs,  with  a  King  Charles 
spaniel  as  the  most  privileged,  and  in  the  paddock 
she  has  a  home  of  rest  for  old  horses. 

The  garden  is  very  full  of  flowers  —  so  full  that 
I  might  well  have  bought  something  else  with 
my  money  —  and  it  has  also  two  large  cedars, 
beneath  which  her  wheeled  couch  often  stands. 

Very  nervously  did  I  ring  Miss  Gold's  bell; 
but,  as  is  usual  hi  this  life,  I  found  the  realisation 
of  the  visit  far  easier  than  the  anticipation.  The 
little  lady  was  brave  enough  for  two.  "My  dear 
Kent,"  she  said,  after  a  little  while,  "you  must 
not  come  and  see  me  if  you  are  going  to  look  so 
sad.  I  want  you  to  come  often:  you  will  do  me 
so  much  good.  But  it  is  quite  useless  if  you 
have  such  a  mournful  expression.  What  is  it 
after  all?  I  am  very  happy  lying  here.  I  have 
many  kind  friends.  The  garden  is  so  wonderful 
always,  and  I  have  a  gardener  who  is  also  an  in- 
valuable companion  and  never  wants  to  make  a 
rustic  fence.  The  birds  trust  me:  there  is  a 
robin  that  comes  right  into  the  room  and  will  do 
so  until  he  is  a  month  or  so  older  and  has  been 


I  MEET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  77 

told  more  about  man's  nature.  I  have  letters  every 
morning,  and  my  eyes  are  so  good  that  I  can  read 
and  write  all  day  if  I  like.  As  for  death,  my  dear 
Kent,  we  must  not  be  so  frightened  of  it.  I 
have  grown  to  think  of  death  without  any  fear  or 
shuddering.  After  all,  if  I  live  to  be  eighty,  my 
life  on  my  eightieth  birthday  will  be  as  much 
behind  me  as  a  child's  of  five.  It  is  only  to-day 
that  we  live  for  —  to-day  and  to-morrow.  No  one 
dares  to  look  much  more  forward  than  that.  The 
past  is  so  completely  over  that  in  a  kind  of  way 
one  life  may  be  said  to  be  as  long  as  another." 

I  did  my  best  to  be  equally  optimistic,  and 
quoted  an  old  epigram  of  my  friend  Trist's  to 
the  effect  that  every  birth  certificate  is  in  a 
manner  of  speaking  a  death  warrant. 

Miss  Gold  liked  that.  "And  another  thing," 
she  said:  "considering  how  uncertain  is  life  and 
how  many  fatal  accidents  occur  every  day,  it  is 
illogical  to  be  cheerful  with  every  one  else,  and 
pull  a  long  face  when  you  come  to  see  me. 
Because  I  may  be  lying  on  this  couch  in  ten 
years'  time  just  as  I  am  to-day;  whereas  one  of 
your  strong,  healthy  friends  with  whom  you  dine 
to-night  may  be  knocked  down  and  killed  by  a 
motor  car  to-morrow  morning.  No,  Kent,  with 
me  you  must  be  gay." 

I  so  far  fell  into  her  humour  as  to  tell  her  about 
one  or  two  of  Mr.  Giles's  Chinese  heroes,  whose 
quiet  acceptance  of  death  is  perhaps  their  most 
astonishing  characteristic  to  a  Western  reader 
—  the  characteristic  which  most  differentiates 


78  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

them  from  ourselves,  who  cling  to  life  more 
passionately  with  each  generation.  I  told  her  of 
the  death  of  Wang  Ching-we'n  of  the  fifth  century 
A.D.,  who  one  evening,  as  he  was  playing  chess 
with  a  friend,  received  orders  to  commit  suicide. 
"After  having  read  the  Imperial  mandate,  he 
finished  his  game  and  put  the  board  away.  A 
bowl  of  poison  was  brought  to  him;  and  then 
turning  to  his  friend  he  remarked  jestingly,  'I  am 
afraid  I  cannot  ask  you  to  join  me!'  and  quietly 
drained  the  bowl." 

"That  is  the  way,"  said  Miss  Gold;  "but  it 
certainly  is  not  English." 

I  told  her  also  of  the  death  of  Hsieh  Chiu-cheng, 
whose  was  perhaps  the  most  ludicrously  ironical 
end  on  record,  since  it  came  "from  poisoning 
himself  with  a  compound  which  he  fancied  was 
the  Elixir  of  Life." 

Miss  Gold  asked  me  if  any  women  were  in- 
cluded in  the  book.  There  are,  of  course,  a  few, 
but  China  is  not  a  woman's  country.  One  is 
Liu  Shih,  the  wife  of  an  official  at  Court,  who 
also  had  dealings  with  the  cup.  The  Emperor  one 
day  sent  her  "a  potion  which  he  commanded  her 
to  drink,  and  which  he  said  would  cause  instant 
death  if  she  was  jealous;  adding  that  if  she  was 
not  jealous  she  need  not  drink  it.  Without 
hesitation  she  drank  it  off,  saying  that  death 
would  be  preferable  to  such  a  life." 

Another  Chinese  lady  is  Li  Fu-jen  of  the 
second  century  B.C.,  who  was  so  beautiful  that 
"one  glance  of  hers,"  said  a  poet,  "would  destroy 


I  MEET  AN  OLD  FRIEND  79 

a  City,  two  glances  a  State."  Li  Fu-jen,  however, 
lived  for  pleasure;  more  heroic  was  Li  Hsien,  who, 
finding  that  she  fascinated  a  student  named  Che'ng 
Yuan-ho  to  such  an  extent  that  he  began  to 
neglect  his  career,  she  tore  out  her  eyes:  "after 
which,"  says  the  historian,  "her  lover  rapidly  rose 
to  distinction."  But  —  and  here  comes  in  the 
surprise  to  the  Western  reader  accustomed  to 
think  of  the  Chinese  as  monsters  of  impassive 
selfishness  —  after  he  had  achieved  distinction  he 
married  her,  all  sightless  as  she  was.  Isn't  that 
a  pretty  story? 

To  my  mind,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  girls 
in  the  book  is  the  sarcastic  waiting-maid  who 
rebuked  the  meanness  of  T£o  Ku.  "On  one 
occasion  he  bade  a  newly  purchased  waiting- 
maid  get  some  snow  and  make  tea  in  honour  of 
the  Feast  of  Lanterns,  asking,  somewhat  pom- 
pously, 'Was  that  the  custom  in  your  old  home?' 
'Oh  no,'  the  girl  replied;  'they  were  a  rough 
lot.  They  just  put  up  a  gold-splashed  awning, 
and  had  a  little  music  and  some  old  wine.'" 

We  talked  also  of  the  Wynnes,  and  Miss  Gold 
made  me  promise  to  bring  Naomi  to  see  her,  and 
she  asked  also  if  I  would  bring  Trist,  whom 
neither  of  us  had  seen  since  the  early  seventies, 
but  who  was  in  those  days  my  inseparable  friend 
and  very  attractive  also  to  her.  She  was  greatly 
amused  by  my  discovery  of  her  name  at 
Bemerton's  and  the  chance  which  had  taken  me 
to  live  over  her  favourite  bookseller's  shop.  But 
in  Mr.  Dabney  she  was  even  more  interested. 


8o  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"How  extraordinary  to  think  he  should  be  in 
the  same  house,"  she  said.  "There  is  no  journalist 
whom  I  follow  so  closely.  He  has  a  fearless 
mind  and  a  hatred  of  injustice.  Do  you  like  him?" 

"Well,  he  compels  attention,"  I  said,  "but  he  is 
a  little  too  near  white  heat  for  me." 

"If  he  were  cooler,"  said  Miss  Gold,  "he  would 
probably  be  tolerant  —  like  you  —  and  then  he 
would  be  no  use.  There  is  so  much  comfortable 
tolerance  to-day,  so  little  anger.  I  hope  he  will 
go  on  being  angry." 

"He  will,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER   IX 

HOW  MRS.  FRANK  TRIED  HER  INNO- 
CENT GAMES  ON  ONE  OF  THE 
GREAT  ONES  OF  THE  EARTH 

THERE  is  a  most  amusing  article  in  this 
week's  Balance  on  the  Scold  and  her  place 
in  mediaeval  life.  The  writer  had  seen  a  ducking- 
chair  somewhere,  and  had  been  led  by  it  to  a 
series  of  reflections  on  the  Scold  and,  what  is 
perhaps  more  interesting,  the  Scold's  husband. 

It  is  a  topic  on  which  we  are  very  ill  informed, 
and  the  fancy  has  a  free  field.  What,  he  asked, 
was  the  husband  doing  while  his  wife  was  being 
corrected?  Was  he  a  spectator  or  an  absentee? 
Was  he  proud  —  a  kind  of  inverted  hero  —  or  was 
he  ashamed?  Had  he  not  more  probably  a  very 
lively  sense  of  what  was  hi  store  for  him  at  night 
and  was  he  not  nerving  himself  for  the  fray  in  the 
inn  parlour? 

The  writer  then  went  on  to  consider  the  home- 
coming of  the  Scold:  wet  through  certainly,  but 
was  she  penitent?  Did  she  scold  no  more?  Is 
any  one  ever  cured?  The  home-coming  of  the 

G  8l 


8a  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

husband,  he  suggested,  would  be  later.  And  so 
forth. 

Meeting  Mr.  Dabney  on  the  stairs,  I  mentioned 
the  article  and  asked  him  who  wrote  it.  He 
said  it  was  written  by  a  young  fellow  named 
Wynne — Frank  Wynne.  Isn't  that  odd?  I 
knew  Frank  for  an  amusing  embroiderer,  but  I 
never  thought  of  him  having  so  much  humour 
as  that. 

He  and  his  wife  being  at  Queen  Anne's  Gate 
to  dinner,  I  congratulated  him. 

"How  did  you  know  I  wrote  it?"  he  asked; 
and  I  told  him  about  Mr.  Dabney.  "By  the 
way,"  I  added  to  Naomi,  "that  proves  my 
prophecy.  Don't  you  remember  my  saying  that 
Mr.  Dabney  and  I  would  find  we  had  a  common 
friend;  and  it  turns  out  to  be  Frank." 

Frank,  however,  denied  that  he  knew  him: 
his  connection  with  the  paper  was  the  result  of 
correspondence,  and  so  I  said  I  would  bring  Mr. 
Dabney  to  Barton  Street  to  tea  and  they  should 
then  meet. 

"But  isn't  he  very  fierce?"  asked  Mrs.  Frank, 
thinking,  I  am  sure,  of  the  twins. 

"You  must  tame  him,"  I  said. 

She  certainly  tried. 

Never  was  there  such  a  tea.  Mrs.  Frank 
must  have  lain  awake  half  the  night  meditating 
upon  the  attack,  for  this  was  her  first  editor,  and 
was  she  not  a  young  journalist's  wife?  (Such  a 
chance.)  In  her  original  scheme  were  hot  cakes 
and  cold,  muffins  and  crumpets,  brown  bread  and 


MRS.  FRANK'S  INNOCENT  GAMES        83 

white,  jam  and  marmalade;  but  she  had  a  doubt 
and  put  it  to  Frank. 

"Isn't  there  a  danger,"  she  said,  "that  he  may 
think  we're  too  well  off  already?" 

Frank  thought  there  might.  So  the  muffins 
went  and  the  other  hot  cakes  and  the  marmalade. 

"And  what  about  my  dress?"  she  said.  "I 
should  like  to  wear  the  red  one,  but  it  does  look 
a  little  bit  expensive." 

"It's  very  beautiful,"  said  Frank. 

"Don't  you  like  the  purple  one,  then?"  she 
asked  anxiously. 

"Of  course  I  do:  they're  both  beautiful." 

"Well,  which  shall  it  be?" 

"Why  not  the  red  dress  and  leave  off  all  your 
rings  but  the  wedding  ring?" 

And  so  did  these  Machiavellian  babes  arrange 
it. 

They  might  have  saved  themselves  their  trouble, 
for  Mr.  Dabney  is  one  of  those  persons  who  carry 
their  environment  with  them.  He  ate  his  tea 
nobly,  but  he  could  not  have  said  afterwards 
what  he  consumed:  it  was  all  cake  to  him,  or 
all  bread-and-butter,  such  is  the  activity  of  his 
mind. 

Mrs.  Frank  was  adorable:  she  talked  her  best 
talk  and,  her  fears  allayed,  sent  for  the  twins, 
whom  Mr.  Dabney  inspected  with  a  most  admir- 
able show  of  interest,  although  at  any  moment  I 
felt  he  might  remark  that  one  or  the  other  was 
too  long  and  would  be  better  with  twenty  lines 
cut  out 


84  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

He  arranged  for  some  articles  with  Frank,  and 
then  left.  Mrs.  Frank  was  very  happy,  but  I 
doubt  if  her  innocent  and  loyal  strategy  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Still,  it  is  very  pretty  to  see 
a  young  wife  working  for  her  husband. 

"Frank  is  a  dear,"  Mrs.  Frank  said  to  me 
later,  "but  really  he  is  a  little  too  casual  about 
refusing  work.  The  Balance  only  takes  two 
articles  a  week,  which  doesn't  pay  for  more 
than  nurse  and  our  dinners,  but  nothing  will 
induce  him  to  write  for  other  papers  unless  he 
likes  them." 

"O  si  sic  omnesl"  I  said. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  she  asked  coldly. 
"I  have  an  uncle  who  talks  like  that." 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  I  said,  "I  won't  do  it  again. 
It  means  that  I  wish  all  the  other  journalists  were 
like  Frank.  Then  we  should  have  some  decent 
honest  papers." 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said,  "but  really  one  can  be 
too  nice  and  fastidious.  What  about  the  twins? 
I  wanted  them  to  go  to  Eton.  And  he  won't 
write  a  play  either,"  she  continued.  "That's  the 
way  to  make  money,  and  it's  so  easy.  We  go  to 
the  theatre  pretty  often,  and  I  never  see  any- 
thing that  Frank  couldn't  have  done  better. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  make  people  say 
foolish  things  in  nice  clothes.  But  Frank  says 
he  couldn't.  He  says  it's  a  special  gift,  and  he 
hates  the  stage.  He  won't  even  try." 

"Frank's  all  right,"  I  said;  "he's  finding  him- 
self. You  mustn't  hurry  him." 


MRS.  FRANK'S  INNOCENT  GAMES        85 

"There  are  so  many  things  we  want,"  she  re- 
plied. "You  don't  know." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  bad  woman,"  I  said. 
"You  should  believe  more  in  the  ravens.  Young 
journalists  and  young  journalists'  wives  ought  not 
to  be  rich.  If  you  talk  like  this  I  shall  begin  to 
think  you  have  made  a  mistake  and  ought  really 
to  have  married  a  stockbroker." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Frank  is  doing  quite  well 
enough.  His  name  is  getting  to  be  known  for 
delicate  work,  and  he  is  in  the  way  of  making 
four  or  five  hundred  a  year  already.  That  is 
plenty.  But  you  might  as  well  pour  Chateau 
Yquem  into  the  Thames  as  tell  a  young  wife  that 
she  would  be  less  happy  with  more  money. 

Frank,  however,  does  not  let  it  worry  him,  but 
goes  smiling  through  the  world,  elaborating  his 
little  humorous  fancies,  building  up  little  literary 
lyrics,  and  writing  reviews  and  so  forth;  and 
there  is  probably  no  great  danger  in  Mrs. 
Frank's  covetousness.  But  I  wish  she  wouldn't. 

I  don't  know  that  I  blame  her,  for  the  air  is  so 
full  of  cupidity  nowadays  that  it  is  taken  in  through 
the  pores  unless  you  watch  yourself  very  carefully. 
She  is  otherwise  a  rational  little  woman,  of  no  great 
force  of  character  but  plenty  of  cheerfulness  and 
loyalty,  who  has  in  reality  one  of  the  serenest  of 
lives,  for  the  twins  are  no  more  trouble  than  they 
ought  to  be  to  supply  their  mother  with  congenial 
topics  of  conversation  and  that  leaven  of  anxiety 
that  keeps  mothers  happy,  and  Mrs.  Frank's  mother 
and  Frank's  mother  vie  with  each  other  in  shower- 


86  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

ing  little  presents  on  the  household,  and  Naomi  is 
continually  looking  in  with  her  dear  sunny  face. 

Let  Mrs.  Frank  be  happy  while  she  can.  Some 
day  her  husband  will  be  offered  ;£iooo  a  year  to  edit 
a  paper,  and  a  literary  peeress  will  take  them  up, 
and  that  will  be  the  end. 

I  find  that  Frank  has  been  selling  his  review 
copies  to  Mr.  Bemerton  for  a  long  time,  and  they 
are  old  friends.  I  met  him  there  recently  on 
the  search  for  second-hand  copies  of  the  collected 
poems  of  one  of  the  older  living  poets,  having 
had  a  commission  from  an  editor  to  prepare  his 
obituary  notice  against  the  dread  summons.  I 
had  not  given  much  thought  to  this  branch  of 
journalistic  industry,  but  of  course  now  that  I 
think  of  it  I  see  that  the  pigeon-holes  of  Fleet 
Street  must  be  full  of  these  anticipatory  articles 
which  only  need  occasional  revision  to  date  to  be 
all  ready  when  the  scythe  is  finally  sharpened. 
To  meet  an  editor  must  be  for  a  thoughtful 
celebrity  as  chilling  as  the  spectacle  of  the 
mummy  at  the  Egyptian  banquet. 

Frank  tells  me  that  the  practice  on  one  of  the 
papers  for  which  he  is  engaged  is  to  withhold 
payment  until  the  article  is  used.  "This,"  he 
says,  "  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  one  is  flush. 
But  if  one  were  broke  just  think  of  what  one 
might  be  tempted  to  do,  for  I  see  Blank  [his 
poetical  victim]  at  the  Museum  continually,  and 
could  easily  poison  his  soup  at  the  Vienna  Cafe*." 

"Poets,"  Frank  said  to  me  one  day,  "ought  to 
have  some  common  fund  from  which  they  might 


MRS.   FRANK'S  INNOCENT  GAMES         87 

borrow  for  sustenance  without  shame  —  some 
Pactolian  spring  into  which  to  dip  their  cups. 
You  know  those  ingenious  contribution  boxes 
invented  by  Mr.  Sidney  Holland,  which  invite 
you  to  drop  in  a  penny  and  by  so  doing  main- 
tain the  London  Hospital  for  one  second  — a  dial 
indicating  the  passage  of  your  own  pennyworth 
of  time  as  you  do  so.  Well,  I  thought  once  of 
adopting  this  plan,  and  calling  upon  the  public  to 
drop  in  a  penny  and  thus  maintain  me.  'A 
penny  keeps  a  poet  for  half  an  hour,'  it  might 
have  said." 

"Apropos  of  poets,"  said  I,  "come  upstairs 
and  I  will  show  you  a  book."  I  need  hardly  say 
what  the  book  was. 

I  delighted  Frank  immensely  by  reading  him 
the  passage  describing  the  ruse  to  which  Ch'en 
Tzu-ang  the  poet  resorted  in  order  to  win 
recognition. 

"Proceeding  to  the  capital  he  purchased  a  very 
expensive  guitar  which  had  been  for  a  long  time 
on  sale,  and  then  let  it  be  known  that  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  he  would  perform  upon  it  in  public. 
This  attracted  a  large  crowd;  but  when  Ch'en 
arrived  he  informed  his  auditors  that  he  had  some- 
thing in  his  pocket  worth  much  more  than  the 
guitar.  Thereupon  he  dashed  the  instrument  into 
a  thousand  pieces,  and  forthwith  began  handing 
round  copies  of  his  own  writings." 

Like  every  one  else  who  sees  this  fascinating 
volume,  Frank  was  wild  for  more,  and  I  read  him 
excerpts  from  the  lives  of  other  poets  —  not  better 


88  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

than  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson's,  but  more  concise  and 
freakish.  Such  as  Wang  Po,  a  poet  of  the 
seventh  century  A.D.,  who  began  as  a  statesman, 
but  on  being  dismissed  from  office  for  satirising 
the  cock-fighting  propensities  of  the  Imperial 
princes,  filled  up  his  leisure  by  composing  verses. 

"He  never  meditated  upon  these  beforehand, 
but  after  having  prepared  a  quantity  of  ink  ready 
for  use,  he  would  drink  himself  tipsy  and  lie 
down  with  his  face  covered  up.  On  waking,  he 
would  seize  his  pen  and  write  off  verses,  not  a 
word  of  which  needed  to  be  changed;  whence  he 
acquired  the  sobriquet  of  Belly-draft." 

Liu  Ling,  another  poet,  and  one  of  the  Seven 
Sages  of  the  Bamboo  Grave,  was  also  a  hard 
drinker  and  a  man  of  infinite  humour.  It  was 
he  who  declared  that  "'to  a  drunken  man  the 
affairs  of  this  world  appear  but  as  so  much 
duckweed  in  a  river.'  He  wished  to  be  always 
accompanied  by  a  servant  with  wine,  and  followed 
by  another  with  a  spade,  so  that  he  might  be 
buried  where  he  fell.  On  one  occasion,  yielding  to 
the  entreaties  of  his  wife,  he  promised  to  'swear 
off,'  and  bade  her  prepare  the  usual  sacrifices  of 
wine  and  meat.  When  all  was  ready,  he  prayed, 
saying,  'O  God,  who  didst  give  to  Liu  Ling  a 
reputation  through  wine,  he  being  able  to  con- 
sume a  gallon  at  a  sitting  and  requiring  a  quart 
to  sober  him  again,  listen  not  to  the  words  of 
his  wife,  for  she  speaketh  not  truth.'  Thereupon 
he  drank  up  the  sacrificial  wine,  and  was  soon  as 
drunk  as  ever." 


MRS.   FRANK'S  INNOCENT  GAMES         89 

A  tenderer  genius  was  Cheng  Ku,  of  the 
ninth  century  A.D.,  who  "said  that  no  one  should 
sing  his  Song  of  the  Partridge  in  the  presence  of 
Southerners,  as  it  made  them  think  sadly  of  their 
far-off  homes." 

Li  Po,  founder  of  the  coterie  known  as  the 
Eight  Immortals  of  the  Wine  Cup  (having  got  his 
hand  in  as  a  club-maker  by  forming,  some  years 
earlier,  the  hard-drinking  company  known  as  the 
Six  Idlers  of  the  Bamboo  Brook),  should  certainly 
be  better  known  in  a  country  where  the  sanction 
of  an  illustrious  wine-bibber  —  a  Burns  or  an 
Omar — is  so  necessary  to  literary  convivialists. 
The  mother  of  Li  Po,  who  roystered  and  revelled 
in  the  eighth  century  A.D.,  dreamed  just  before 
his  birth  of  the  planet  Venus.  The  boy  was 
therefore  a  poet  at  ten  years  of  age,  and  a  great 
swordsman  very  soon  after. 

About  A.D.  742  he  reached  Ch'ang-an.  The 
Emperor  "was  charmed  with  his  verses,  prepared 
a  bowl  of  soup  for  him  with  his  own  hands,  and 
at  once  appointed  him  to  the  Han-liu  College." 
Later,  "with  a  lady  of  the  Seraglio  to  hold  his 
ink-slab,  he  dashed  off  some  of  his  most  impas- 
sioned lines;  at  which  the  Emperor  was  so 
overcome  that  he  made  the  powerful  eunuch 
Kao  Li-shih  go  down  on  his  knees  and  pull  off 
the  poet's  boots."  Kao's  desire  for  revenge  made 
it  necessary  for  Li  Po  to  leave  the  court,  which 
he  did  with  seven  companions,  and  they  are  now 
known  collectively  as  the  Eight  Immortals  of  the 
Wine  Cup.  He  met  his  death,  characteristically, 


90  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

by  drowning,  "from  leaning  one  night  over  the 
edge  of  the  boat,  in  a  drunken  effort  to  embrace 
the  reflection  of  the  moon." 

Li  Po  had  no  monopoly  of  such  ends.  Fu  I, 
another  poet  and  the  originator  of  epitaphs,  was 
of  the  same  mettle.  His  own  epitaph,  which  he 
composed  with  accurate  foresight,  runs  thus  — 

"Fu  I  loved  the  green  hills  and  the  white  clouds, 
Alas !  he  died  of  drink. " 

"Very  different  from  our  reputed  Laureate," 
Frank  remarked,  adding,  "I  wish  you'd  lend  me 
that  book." 

"For  why?"   I  replied.     "To  write  about  it?" 

He  admitted  the  weakness. 

"No,"  I  said  with  startling  decision.     "No." 


CHAPTER  X 

A   HERO-WORSHIPPER  AGAIN   GLIMPSES 
HIS   HERO,   AFTER   MANY   YEARS 

TO  look  up  Trist  was,  I  knew,  both  necessary 
and  desirable,  and  yet  I  dreaded  it  too. 
Not  quite  as  I  had  dreaded  the  visit  to  Esher,  but 
as  a  duty  to  be  put  off.  Why?  For  we  had 
been  great  friends;  more,  he  had  been  my 
exemplar,  my  model.  His  year  or  two  of  senior- 
ity, his/<«>  for  civilisation,  as  I  might  call  it,  had 
set  him  in  the  position  of  mentor.  I  had  been 
rather  at  his  feet  than  by  his  side.  That  was 
thirty  and  more  years  ago;  and  now,  ...  do 
you  understand? 

In  the  days  when  Trist  and  I  shared  rooms,  I 
was  in  the  City  and  he  sub-edited  an  evening  paper. 
He  was  fresh  from  Oxford,  wealthy,  contemptuous, 
and  gay;  he  took  his  duties  very  lightly,  but  was 
an  admirable  man  for  the  post,  and  did  much  to 
establish  the  paper's  reputation  on  the  humorous 
side. 

Although  I  could  not  afford  it,  I  went  to  the 
same  tailor  and  hosier;  I  smoked  the  same  brand, 

91 


92  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

which  was  then  a  simple  thing  to  do,  for  it  was 
before  the  second  discovery  of  tobacco,  so  to  speak, 
when  there  were  few  mixtures,  and  no  "Pioneers 
of  the  Smoking  World,"  and  it  was  possible  to 
walk  twenty  yards  along  a  street  and  not  pass 
three  tobacconists.  I  am  not  naturally  a  hero- 
worshipper,  but  Trist  found  me  at  an  impression- 
able age  and  he  filled  an  empty  space.  I  had 
better  have  been  in  love,  no  doubt,  but  that  was 
not  my  way. 

Soon  after  I  had  left  England  he  threw  up 
journalism,  travelled,  then  did  some  political 
private-secretarial  work  and  so  forth,  and  as 
relation  after  relation  died  and  left  him  money 
he  gradually  became  a  connoisseur  of  life  and 
nothing  else,  and  settled  down  in  Gray's  Inn, 
permanently,  with  his  floating  population  of  fifty 
pairs  of  perfect  trousers,  a  profile  glass,  and  an 
invaluable  man. 

In  Buenos  Ay  res  I  had  written  to  Trist  now 
and  then,  and  he  to  me:  enough  to  inform  each 
other  that  the  end  was  not  yet,  but  little  more. 

I  continued  to  put  off  the  call  as  long  as  I  could. 
There  is  something  very  perilous  in  the  resump- 
tion of  intercourse  after  many  years,  especially 
when  the  man  you  are  going  to  see  was  once  your 
hero.  Heroes  do  not  wear  well,  and  it  is  a 
question  whether  they  are  less  heroic  to  their 
valets  who  see  them  continually  or  to  old 
admirers  who  have  acquired  thirty  years  of 
experience  since  they  saw  them  last.  I  was 
going,  I  felt,  to  see  Trist  with  very  clear  eyes, 


HERO-WORSHIPPER  AND  HIS  HERO      93 

and  I  did  not  want  to.  I  am  absurdly  fond  of 
the  past. 

Few  friendships,  I  suppose,  wear  honestly 
through  a  long  life.  The  friends  do  not  progress 
equally;  one  matures  quickly,  the  other  slowly. 
One  becomes  pious,  the  other  impious.  They 
marry  (this  is  the  commonest  interruption  of  all) 
antipathetic  wives.  It  is  all  as  it  should  be  if 
they  were  really  friends  once,  for  friends,  in  fact, 
belong  to  periods  rather  than  to  all  time,  although 
sentiment  would  have  it  otherwise.  One  is  always 
changing  a  little,  although  of  radical  change  there 
is  almost  none,  and  new  friends  are  found  in  tune 
with  each  stage.  I  could  admit  no  longer  any 
need  for  Trist,  and  yet  all  the  same  I  longed  to  see 
him  and  dreaded  it  too. 

There  was  another  obstacle  in  the  way.  We 
were  both  bachelors.  In  every  man,  I  take  it, 
even  the  most  married,  there  sleeps  a  bachelor; 
but  a  bachelor  through  and  through  as  I  have 
been,  and  as  Trist  is,  is  a  less  negotiable  quantity. 
No  one  probably  has  more  affectionate  impulses 
than  I,  —  a  warmer  wish  to  help  and  comfort,  — 
and  yet  I  am  always  conscious  of  a  slight  barrier 
between  me  and  those  I  would  befriend  and 
assist,  a  barrier  which  probably  would  not  be 
there  had  I  married.  Marriage,  there  is  no  doubt, 
is  a  solvent;  and  the  curious  thing  is  that  the 
married  reveal  their  state:  marconigrams  pass. 

Bachelors  have  many  advantages,  but  they  are 
all  minor.  Perhaps  the  greatest  advantage  they 
enjoy  is  that  of  still  being  able  to  follow  an 


94  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

impulse;  but  even  this  rarely  seems  to  give  them 
all  the  pleasure  that  it  would  give  many  a  man 
who  has  tasted  restriction.  Feeding  on  impulses 
can  become  as  distasteful  as  feeding  on  jam  roll. 

As  it  happened,  fate  took  the  matter  out  of  my 
hands,  for  I  walked  bang  into  Trist  one  afternoon 
under  my  own  roof  —  that  is  to  say,  in  Bemerton's 
shop.  He  was  engaged  hi  the  characteristic 
occupation  of  making  some  one  do  something  for 
him,  and  in  this  case  he  was  dealing  with  such 
ordinarily  unpromising  material  as  Miss  Ruth 
Wagstaff.  He  seemed  so  genuinely  glad  to  see 
me  again  that  I  felt  ashamed  of  having  so  long 
deferred  my  visit;  and  I  promised  to  dine  with 
him  that  very  evening. 

I  found  Trist  in  very  comfortable,  almost  lux- 
urious, rooms,  at  the  top  of  a  seventeenth-century 
house  in  Gray's  Inn,  overlooking  a  beautiful  grave 
square  on  one  side  and  a  beautiful  grave  lawn  on 
the  other.  Not  quite  the  true  Oxford  cloister, 
but  very  near  it;  and  with  busy  London  within 
a  stone's-throw.  His  only  companion  is  his  man, 
Jack  Rogers,  once  a  sailor  in  the  King's  Navy, 
but  now  through  the  loss  of  an  eye  enjoying  a 
pension  on  land,  although  only  twenty-nine  years 
of  age,  and  acting  as  valet,  cook,  and  parlour- 
maid to  my  old  friend.  Why  a  navy  which  owes 
most  of  its  prestige  to  the  activities  of  a  man 
who  lacked  not  only  one  eye  but  also  one  arm 
should  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  Jack  I 
cannot  understand;  for  he  sees  far  more  with  his 
widowed  orb  than  the  ordinary  observer  does 


HERO-WORSHIPPER  AND  HIS  HERO      95 

with  two,  and  is  quite  the  most  capable  all-round 
hand  I  have  yet  met. 

That  Trist  should  live  in  Gray's  Inn,  off  Hoi- 
born,  of  all  streets,  and  that  his  man  should  not 

have  been  for  some  years  with  the  Duke  of  B 

and  the  Earl  of  A ,  are  the  surprising  things; 

but  then  Trist  makes  a  point  of  never  belonging 
wholly  to  any  type.  His  aim  is  always  to  be 
original  somewhere,  although  never  original 
enough  to  be  conspicuous. 

Another  of  his  foibles  is  to  be  thought  worldly 
to  a  point  of  cynicism;  but  he  is  of  course  far 
too  English  to  be  a  genuine  success,  although  he 
may  deceive  the  poor  observer.  Every  man  has 
some  ideal,  and  Trist  has  been  true  to  his  ever 
since  I  have  known  him.  I  should  describe  his 
ideal,  which  he  acquired  as  quite  a  youth,  as  a 
blend  of  Lytton's  Zanoni  and  Meredith's  Adrian 
Harley,  the  wise  youth.  (For  one  has  to  get 
one's  durable  exemplars  from  books;  in  real  life 
one  finds  them  out.)  Underneath,  however,  he 
has  a  sympathetic  kindliness  which  has  prompted 
him  to  many  actions  wholly  out  of  keeping  with 
his  cool  exterior. 

He  does  nothing:  he  is  a  true  dilletante;  but 
though  he  does  nothing  he  knows  all.  He  studies 
the  papers,  collects  gossip,  sees  the  new  plays, 
reads  the  new  books,  attends  sales  at  Christie's 
and  Sotheby's.  Half-past  seven  finds  him  in 
evening  dress  as  naturally  as  it  finds  a  baby  in 
bed.  He  is  never  in  a  hurry,  and  never  late. 
His  cigarette  case  is  always  full. 


96  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Trist's  second  ambition  (the  first  being  never 
to  be  unprepared)  is  to  own  the  best  Old  Crome. 
His  life  may  be  said  almost  to  have  been  dedicated 
to  Old  Crome.  He  has  three  on  his  walls,  and  he 
wants  others,  but  they  must  be  better  than  the 
three;  which  to  my  eye  are  perfect.  Two  are 
views  of  Household  Heath,  which  stood  for  the 
promised  land  to  this  painter,  and  the  other  is  a 
cottage  and  a  tree  and  a  peasant  woman.  They 
are  the  only  pictures  in  the  room.  In  the  dining- 
room  one  painter  again  is  represented,  and  one 
only,  the  rare  and  marvellous  Bonington,  who 
perished  in  his  pride,  but  not  before  he  had 
revolutionised  French  landscape  painting,  —  all 
water-colours.  Trist  spends  hours  every  week 
in  curiosity  shops,  and  in  the  summer,  when  he 
is  driven  from  London  by  sheer  lack  of  activity 
there,  he  makes  his  holiday  in  Norfolk,  partly 
sailing  on  the  Broads  and  partly  bicycling  among 
the  farmhouses,  into  which  with  masterly  address 
he  finds  his  way  and  scans  the  walls  for  the 
Master's  glow.  His  manners  are  charming,  and 
he  rarely  meets  with  a  rebuff.  Down  to  the 
present  time,  however,  he  tells  me,  one  Crome 
and  one  only  has  he  found  that  he  covets  —  and 
that  he  cannot  get.  The  owner,  a  strong  wealthy 
farmer  of  as  much  independence  .and  will-power 
as  Trist  himself,  would  as  soon  sell  his  daughter. 

Nothing  else  moves  Trist  to  feeling.  Old 
Crome  and  Bonington  can  light  his  eye,  but  for 
the  rest  his  attitude  through  life  is  one  of  cool, 
amused  detachment  and  perfect  self-possession. 


HERO-WORSHIPPER  AND  HIS  HERO      97 

I  have  from  time  to  time  set  down  his  obiter 
dicta  on  the  management  of  one's  affairs  in  a 
very  civilised  progress  through  this  vale  of  tears; 
but  as  I  can  remember  only  those  that  he  has 
dropped  in  my  hearing,  the  record  necessarily  is 
deprived  of  thousands  that  may  be  better,  —  as 
indeed  I  suppose  BoswelPs  also  is.  (A  new  col- 
lection of  Johnson's  good  things  uttered  when 
Boswell  was  absent  would  stand  almost  first 
among  the  books  we  desire.  I  mentioned  this  to 
Mr.  Bemerton  one  day,  for  we  often  talk  of  the 
impossible  books  we  should  like  to  have.  "Yes," 
he  said,  "and  what  a  good  subject  for  the  forger." 
He  is,  by  the  way,  greatly  interested  in  literary 
forgeries,  and  keeps  a  number  of  them  together 
on  a  shelf,  and  is  one  of  the  few  people  who  have 
read  Vortigern.) 

Here,  then,  are  certain  of  the  aphorisms  with 
which  Trist  would,  hi  his  Chesterfieldian  manner, 
instruct  his  son,  if  he  had  anything  so  ridiculous. 
All  begin  with  the  same  words  —  concerning 
which  I  might  perhaps  say  that  by  "life"  Trist 
does  not  mean  what  a  poet  means,  or  a  saint,  or 
a  schoolboy,  or  a  motorist,  or  even  what  I  mean 
by  it.  Trist  means  by  "life"  a  protected  ease. 
I  have  jotted  them  down  from  time  to  time  as 
I  remembered  them  —  my  first  thought  being  mis- 
chievously to  convict  him  of  inconsistency.  I  see 
now,  however,  that  one  definite  idea  connects  all. 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  the  pigeon- 
holing of  women."  True  enough  of  Englishmen, 
at  any  rate,  who  want  women  only  when  they 
H 


98  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

want  them  (and  then  they  must  behave) ;  but  no 
Frenchman  would  say  it. 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  say  the 
same  things  to  everybody.  To  differentiate  one's 
treatment  of  people  may  be  interesting,  but  it 
leads  to  complications." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  assume 
that  no  one  else  has  any  feelings." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  the  use  and 
not  abuse  of  alcohol.  A  wise  ap&ritif  can  make 
a  bad  dinner  almost  good,  and  a  bad  partner 
almost  negligible." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  be  so  well 
known  at  a  good  restaurant  that  you  can  pay  by 
cheque." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  make  your 
tailor  come  to  you." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  who  hates  gossip, 
"is  never  to  see  two  unrelated  people  together;  but 
if  you  must,  —  and  it  can't  be  helped  very  easily,  — 
never  to  mention  it  again.  Three-quarters  of  the 
ills  of  life  proceed  from  the  report  that  So-and-so 
has  been  seen  with  So-and-so.  There  is  too  much 
talk.  A  wise  autocrat  would  cut  out  the  tongue 
of  every  baby.  A  silent  society  would  probably 
be  a  happy  one;  because  it  would  be  largely 
without  scandal."  That  seemed  to  me,  I  said,  too 
drastic,  and  I  recommended  instead  the  example 
(from  my  Chinese  book)  of  Hsin  Shao,  of  the 
second  and  third  century  A.D.,  "who  is  now 
chiefly  remembered  in  connection  with  his 
practice  of  devoting  the  first  day  of  every 


HERO-WORSHIPPER  AND  HIS  HERO      99 

month  to  criticism  of  his  neighbours  and  their 
conduct." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  never  to  be 
out  of  small  change." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  keep  down 
acquaintances.  One's  friends  one  can  manage, 
but  one's  acquaintances  can  be  the  devil." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  show  your 
hand.  There  is  no  diplomacy  like  candour. 
You  may  lose  by  it  now  and  then,  but  it  will  be 
a  loss  well  gained  if  you  do.  Nothing  is  so  boring 
as  having  to  keep  up  a  deception." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  live  near 
a  post  office,  but  never  to  go  there  one's  self." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  never  to  think 
you  know  what  other  people  are  feeling  about 
you.  You  are  sure  to  be  wrong." 

"The  art  of  life,"  says  Trist,  "is  to  be  thought 
odd.  Everything  will  then  be  permitted  to  you. 
The  best  way  to  be  thought  odd  is  to  return  a 
cheque  now  and  then  on  a  conscientious  scruple. 
There  is  no  such  investment." 

Trist  also  has  a  very  interesting  and  ingenious 
theory  that  goes  more  deeply  into  the  manage- 
ment of  life.  "I  do  not  believe,"  he  once  said  to 
me,  "in  carving  out  our  own  destiny,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  the  unexpected  happens  so  often,  and 
the  expected  so  seldom,  that  one  might  by 
steadily  anticipating  ills  avoid  calamity." 

Trist,  however,  is  not  really  as  monstrous  as 
these  maxims  would  make  him  out  to  be.  For 
the  full  play  of  his  personality  he  must  un- 


ioo  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

doubtedly  be  calm  and  prosperous  and  spoiled; 
but  once  he  is  in  that  state  of  bliss  he  can  be 
extraordinarily  kind.  One  would  not  see  him 
carrying  a  poor  woman's  bundle,  or  putting 
himself  out  over  a  street  casualty;  but  he  has 
befriended  several  young  artists  and  musicians, 
and  he  lends  money  capriciously  to  needy  persons 
at  the  very  moment  when  money  means  most  to 
them.  He  likes  to  play  Fate. 

I  came  away  from  his  rooms  that  first  evening 
a  little  saddened.  I  could  not  help  contrasting 
the  past,  when  he  was  so  necessary  to  me,  with  the 
present,  when  we  each  made  the  other  constrained, 
and  had  grown  so  naturally  into  the  power  of 
doing  without  each  other  that  the  early  conditions 
could  never  be  restored. 

But  since  then  I  have  fallen  into  the  old  Trist 
habit  again,  and  now  I  like  to  be  with  him  almost 
as  much  as  ever,  although  I  am  no  longer  plastic 
as  I  was.  I  like  his  fastidiousness,  and  it  amuses 
me  (and  perhaps  does  me  good)  to  watch  the 
skill  with  which  he  looks  ahead  by  instinct  to 
ensure  his  comfort. 

We  are  to  go  down  to  Miss  Gold's  to  tea  one 
afternoon  next  week.  Trist,  it  seems,  has  a  taxi- 
cab  driver  in  his  pocket,  and  he  will  convey  us 
there.  "I  telephone  him  when  I  want  him,"  said 
Trist;  "it  is  far  better  than  being  bothered  with 
a  car  of  one's  own." 

Of  course. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MR.  BEMERTON'S  FIRST  BED  BOOK 
BRINGS  US  INTO  THE  COMPANY 
OF  QUAINT  AND  LEARNED  GEN- 
TLEMEN 

/"~T*HE  older  I  grow,  the  less,  I  find,  do  I  want 
-1-  to  read  about  anything  but  human  be- 
ings. (The  proper  study  of  matured  mankind 
is  certainly  man.)  But  human  beings  as  human 
beings  are  not  enough:  they  must,  to  interest 
me,  have  qualities  of  simplicity  or  candour  or 
quainmess.  A  few  such  I  have  found  in  Mr. 
Bemerton's  first  highly-commended  bed  book  — 
the  Literary  Anecdotes  of  John  Nichols,  a  series 
of  volumes,  very  unpromising  at  first,  and  truly 
as  dull  as  Mr.  Lecky  told  my  friend  that  a  bed 
book  should  be,  descriptive  of  the  attainments 
of  the  principal  contributors  to  The  Gentkmarfs 
Magazine  (best  of  periodicals)  in  the  second  half 
of  the  eighteenth  century  (a  period  when  to  be 
an  antiquary  and  a  gentleman  was  so  easy) 
when  that  publication  belonged  to  Bowyer  the 
printer. 
For  the  most  part  these  old  dry-as-dust  clergy- 


102  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

men  and  scholars  had  little  enough  to  recommend 
them  to  any  one  but  Bowyer,  who  seems  to  have 
basked  with  equal  satisfaction  in  the  friendship  of 
all ;  but  when  one  looks  deeper  one  finds  treasure. 

Sir  Hildebrand  Jacob,  for  example,  one  does 
not  soon  forget.  Sir  Hildebrand  was  a  bibli- 
ophile and  a  minor  poet  and  dramatist,  who 
died  in  1790.  "As  a  general  scholar,  he  was 
exceeded  by  few;  in  his  knowledge  of  the 
Hebrew  language  he  scarcely  had  an  equal.  In 
the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  one  custom  which  he 
constantly  followed  was  very  remarkable.  As 
soon  as  the  roads  became  pretty  good,  and  the 
fine  weather  began  to  set  in,  his  man  was  ordered 
to  pack  up  a  few  things  in  a  portmanteau,  and 
with  these  his  master  and  himself  set  off,  without 
knowing  whither  they  were  going.  When  it 
drew  towards  evening,  they  inquired  at  the  first 
village  they  saw,  whether  the  great  man  in  it  was 
a  lover  of  books,  and  had  a  fine  library.  If  the 
answer  was  in  the  negative,  they  went  on  farther; 
if  in  the  affirmative,  Sir  Hildebrand  sent  his  com- 
pliments, that  he  was  come  to  see  him;  and  there 
he  used  to  stay  till  time  or  curiosity  induced 
him  to  move  elsewhere.  In  this  manner  Sir 
Hildebrand  had  very  nearly  passed  through  the 
greatest  part  of  England,  without  scarcely  ever 
sleeping  at  an  inn,  unless  where  town  or  village 
did  not  afford  one  person  civilised  enough  to  be 
glad  to  see  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar." 

Sir  Hildebrand  reminds  one  a  little  of  the  Don, 
though  lacking  utterly  in  any  suggestion  of  the 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK     103 

pathos  which  so  beautifully  cloaks  that  sublime 
figure.  To  seek  books  comes,  however,  next  to 
the  search  for  adventures  and  wrongs  to  redress. 
A  good  author  might  found  a  very  charming  story 
on  this  literary  knight-errant  and  his  encounters 
with  the  rural  collector.  It  is  not  the  least  loss 
brought  to  us  by  railroads  and  motor  cars  that  the 
problem  of  the  lodging  for  the  night  is  so  easily 
solved  to  the  exclusion  of  chance  hospitality. 
One  wants  to  know  more  of  Sir  Hildebrand  —  how 
he  went  to  work  to  become  a  guest  and  what  mis- 
conceptions he  had  to  live  down. 

Another  of  Nichols'  heroes  is  the  Rev.  William 
Budworth,  the  schoolmaster  who  so  nearly  en- 
gaged the  young  Samuel  Johnson  as  an  usher 
and  who  was  the  instructor  of  the  learned  Bishop 
Hurd,  the  friend  of  Warburton.  Mr.  Budworth, 
who  taught  the  Free  Grammar  School  at  Brewood, 
was  a  precisian  of  the  first  water.  He  made  no 
mistakes.  "His  person,  which  was  rather  above 
the  middle  height,  was  formed  with  the  nicest 
symmetry;  and  he  had,  perhaps,  as  fine  a  presence 
as  almost  any  man  in  the  kingdom.  His  air, 
deportment,  language,  voice,  in  short,  every  word 
and  every  action,  announced  the  accomplished 
gentleman.  He  had  not  the  fine  eagle-eye  of  a 
Conde*,  nor,  askaunt,  did  it  flash  conviction  and 
terror  like  Chatham's ;  there  was  nothing  tremendous 
in  his  aspect;  he  never  spoke  like  thunder,  nor  did 
he  command  with  the  pomp  of  a  bashaw ;  but  there 
was  an  irresistible  and  indescribable  something, 
which  always  commanded  respect,  and  for  ever 


104  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

inspired  the  beholders  with  awe;  his  look  and  his 
voice  pierced  to  the  very  inmost  soul." 

I  imagine  that,  which  is  the  work  not  of  Nichols 
but  of  a  contributor,  to  be  the  perfect  description 
of  the  perfect  schoolmaster.  One  sees  what  a 
terror  would  such  a  man  strike  into  the  heart 
and  knees  of  the  young.  It  was  a  dull  day  for 
English  readers  (I  think)  when  the  description  of 
the  person  was  first  considered  unnecessary.  We 
rarely  get  it  now. 

Among  the  anecdotes  of  Mr.  Budworth  (and  I 
may  say  here  that  Nichols'  Literary  Anecdotes, 
in  spite  of  its  title,  is  poorer  in  anecdotes  than 
almost  any  book  I  ever  opened)  is  this,  referring 
to  a  social  and  more  or  less  unbending,  if  not 
convivial,  evening  at  that  model's  house.  Mr. 
Budworth,  I  should  first  say,  was  a  vegetarian. 
"Among  other  topics  of  conversation,  Mr.  Martin 
took  the  freedom  to  ask  Mr.  Budworth,  what  his 
sentiments  were  respecting  the  lawfulness  or  un- 
lawfulness of  eating  blood.  His  reply  was  nearly 
in  the  following  terms :  '  I  have  read  the  authors  on 
both  sides  of  the  question;  those  who  wrote  in 
favour  of  the  prohibition  had  the  greatest  weight 
with  me,  and  therefore  I  have  always  abstained 
from  eating  it.'" 

Boswell,  I  suppose,  made  the  record  of  this 
kind  of  conversation  possible.  I  wish  it  had  not 
gone  out;  but  with  hero-worship  (of  which  it  was 
a  symptom)  it  has  passed.  We  seem  to  have 
grown  too  critical  for  such  hero-worship  any  more; 
the  minor  dictator,  being  no  longer  able  to  induce 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK     105 

people  to  take  him  at  his  own  valuation,  has  either 
become  merely  a  grumbler  or  has  diminished  into 
a  man  and  a  brother. 

Another  possessor  of  the  higher  dignity  —  but 
a  very  different  man  from  Mr.  Budworth, 
although  his  contemporary  —  was  John  Baskerville 
(noble  name!),  the  Birmingham  printer  of  the 
Bible  whose  spacious  page  one  occasionally  and 
very  joyfully  observes  on  the  lectern  of  such 
village  churches  as  one  has  the  luck  to  find  open. 
Baskerville  printed  the  Bible  like  an  angel,  but 
he  did  not  esteem  its  matter.  He  was,  in  fact,  a 
very  determined  agnostic,  and  in  his  last  will  and 
testament  he  provided  for  the  persistence  of  his 
hostility  to  accepted  dogma.  John  Baskerville  is 
thus  described  by  a  friend  of  Nichols:  "In  re- 
gard to  his  private  character,  he  was  much  of  a 
humorist,  idle  in  the  extreme;  but  his  invention 
was  of  the  true  Birmingham  model,  active.  He 
could  well  design,  but  procured  others  to  execute: 
wherever  he  found  merit,  he  caressed  it:  he  was 
remarkably  polite  to  the  stranger,  fond  of  show; 
a  figure  rather  of  the  smaller  size,  and  delighted 
to  adorn  that  figure  with  gold  lace.  Although 
constructed  with  the  light  timbers  of  a  frigate,  his 
movement  was  stately  as  a  ship  of  the  line." 

From  the  printer  we  pass  to  a  printer's  friend 
—  to  Mr.  James  Elphinstone  the  grammarian,  the 
friend  of  Benjamin  Franklin  and  also  of  Johnson 
and  Jortin.  Mr.  Elphinstone  had  a  very  agree- 
able gentle  eccentricity.  "The  colour  of  his  suit 
of  clothes  was  invariably,  except  when  in  mourn- 


106  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

ing,  what  is  called  a  drab;  his  coat  was  made  in 
the  fashion  that  reigned,  when  he  returned  from 
France,  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  with 
flaps  and  buttons  to  the  pockets  and  sleeves, 
without  a  cape;  he  always  wore  a  powdered  bag- 
wig,  with  a  high  toupee;  and  walked  with  a 
cocked  hat  and  an  amber-headed  cane;  his  shoe- 
buckles  had  seldom  been  changed,  and  were 
always  of  the  same  size;  and  he  never  put  on 
boots.  It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  he 
lately,  more  than  once,  offered  to  make  any 
change  Mrs.  Elphinstone  might  deem  proper:  but 
in  her  eyes  his  virtues  and  worth  had  so  sanctified 
his  appearance,  that  she  would  have  thought  the 
alteration  a  sacrilege.  Mr.  Elphinstone' s  principal 
foibles  originated,  some  in  virtue  itself,  and  others 
in  the  system  he  had  early  laid  down  for  pre- 
serving the  purity  of  the  English  tongue.  As  an 
instance  of  the  former,  when  any  ladies  were  present 
in  company  whose  sleeves  were  at  a  distance  from 
their  elbows,  or  whose  bosoms  were  at  all  exposed, 
he  would  fidget  from  place  to  place,  look  askance, 
with  a  slight  convulsion  of  his  left  eye,  and  never 
rest  till  he  approached  some  of  them,  and,  point- 
ing to  their  arms,  say,  'Oh  yes,  indeed!  it  is  very 
pretty,  but  it  betrays  more  fashion  than  modesty ! ' 
or  some  similar  phrase;  after  which  he  became 
very  good-humoured." 

Another  gentle  humorist  (in  the  old  sense  of 
the  word,  which  is  far  better  than  the  new)  was 
Dr.  John  Taylor,  Registrar  of  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity, editor  of  Demosthenes  and  ^Eschylus,  and 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK     107 

Canon  Residentiary  of  St.  Paul's,  who  died  in  1766. 
A  friend  sent  to  Sylvanus  Urban  an  admirable 
account  of  this  old  scholar,  containing  a  very 
pleasant  picture  of  his  patience  with  visitors  — 
more  than  patience,  his  sweet  cordiality.  "You 
have  mentioned  that  Dr.  Taylor  was  too  busy 
a  man  to  be  idle.  This  is  too  shining  a  particular 
in  the  Doctor's  temper  and  abilities  not  to  be  a 
little  more  insisted  upon.  If  you  called  on  him  in 
College  after  dinner,  you  were  sure  to  find  him 
sitting  at  an  old  oval  walnut-tree  table  entirely 
covered  with  books,  in  which,  as  the  common 
expression  runs,  he  seemed  to  be  buried:  you 
began  to  make  apologies  for  disturbing  a  person 
so  well  employed;  but  he  immediately  told  you 
to  advance,  taking  care  to  disturb  as  little  as  you 
could  the  books  on  the  floor;  and  called  out, 
'John,  John,  bring  pipes  and  glasses;'  and  then 
fell  to  procuring  a  small  space  for  the  bottle 
just  to  stand  on,  but  which  could  hardly  ever  be 
done  without  shoving  off  an  equal  quantity  of 
the  furniture  at  the  other  end;  and  he  instantly 
appeared  as  cheerful,  good-humoured,  and  d6gage, 
as  if  he  had  not  been  at  all  engaged  or  interrupted. 
Suppose  now  you  had  stayed  as  long  as  you 
would,  and  been  entertained  by  him  most  agree- 
ably, you  took  your  leave,  and  got  half-way  down 
the  stairs;  but,  recollecting  somewhat  that  you 
had  more  to  say  to  him,  you  go  hi  again;  the 
bottle  and  glasses  were  gone,  the  books  had 
expanded  themselves  so  as  to  re-occupy  the  whole 
table,  and  he  was  just  as  much  buried  in  them  as 


io8  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

when  you  first  broke  in  on  him.  I  never  knew 
this  convenient  faculty  to  an  equal  degree  in  any 
other  scholar." 

It  seems  to  me  that  Dr.  John  Taylor  in  his 
study  would  make  a  good  picture  for  an  artist  of 
interiors. 

But  my  favourites  among  Bowyer's  friends  are 
William  Clarke,  the  Sussex  parson,  and  Richard 
Gough,  the  antiquary  of  Enfield.  Mr.  Gough's  par- 
ticular line  was  topography,  and  in  addition  to 
a  work  of  his  own  on  the  topography  of  Great 
Britain,  he  translated  and  edited  Camden's 
Britannia.  Having  considerable  wealth,  he  was 
able  to  employ  illustrators  to  enrich  his  text 
very  thoroughly,  and  when  he  died  he  left  all  his 
MSS.  and  drawings  to  the  Bodleian,  where  they 
may  be  seen  by  the  curious  to-day.  But  the 
trait  in  the  character  of  this  amiable  scholar 
which  has  most  attracted  me  is  his  kindness  to 
animals  —  more  than  kindness,  for  any  one  can  feel 
that,  but  gratitude  too,  which  fourd  expression 
in  the  minute  and  thoughtful  epitaphs  which  he 
wrote  for  the  gravestones  of  his  pets.  Here  is 
one  upon  Toby  —  perhaps  a  sparrow :  — 

To  immortalise  the  memory 

of   Merit   and   Innocence,    which,    having   long   since   left   the 

abodes  of  men,  shine  forth  among  brutes,  and    to  perpetuate 

the  unhappiness  of  Favourites, 

is  this  monument  erected. 

He  who  is  here  deposited  was,  like  all  the  good,  removed  from 
future  evils,  though  his  character  was  such  as  might  alone  procure 
him  esteem.  His  station  was  sufficient  to  protect  him  from  those 
insults  which  his  equals  continually  bear;  and  his  greatest  recom- 
mendation was  to  have  been  taught  at  home.  He  was  no  wise 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK     109 

inferior  to  the  fam'd  favourite  of  Lesbia,  though  all  his  praise  is 

confined  to  this;    but  he  owed  his  death  to  a  different  cause,  the 

sportive  jealousy  of  another  object  of  partiality  having  sent  hither 

the  unfortunate  Toby. 

Pretty  if  heavy  pleasantry,  is  it  not?    Here  follows 
an  epitaph  upon  a  cat :  — 

After  a  life  spent  in  the  useful 
purposes  of  peopling  the  world  with 
my  own  race,  defending  my 
friends  from  intruding 
animals,  and  entertain- 
ing them  in  my  youth 
with  wanton  tricks, 
here  rest  I 
in  peace, 
the  old  TORTOISE-SHELL  CAT. 

Had  I  died  in  Egypt,  an  immortal  sepulchre  and  religious  venera- 
tion had  remembered  me  to  posterity ;  but  now,  such  is  the  change 
of  time,  it  is  owing  to  Mr.  Jarvis  and  a  plate  of  lead  that  you  hear 
any  more  of  me,  since  compassionate  man  put  an  end  to  the 
calamities  of  life,  which  others  of  his  species  would  have  but  aug- 
mented. As  the  Gods  are  said  to  have  considered  their  faithful 
votaries  by  an  easy  death,  the  same  reward  have  I  obtained  for  my 
services;  and  thus  have  I  closed  a  scene  of  great  revolutions, 
though  few  of  these  affected  me. 

So  Priam,  father  of  an  endless  race, 
His  happiness  and  honour,  while  his  Troy 
Remain'd  and  flourish'd,  dropt  into  his  tomb 
By  great  Achilles'  hand;  and  not  a  stone 
Tells  where  the  bones  of  Asia's  Monarch  rest. 

Finally,  let  me  quote  what  is  perhaps  the  only 
inscription  extant  on  the  grave  of  a  pheasant, 
a  bird  which  most  county  gentlemen,  even  the 
kindest,  first  kill  for  sport  and  then  honour  in 
death  in  a  totally  different  way.  I  am  not 


no  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

blaming  them:  I  wish  only  to  point  the  con- 
trast. Mr.  Gough  composed  this  epitaph  on  a 
pheasant  that  he  had  tamed:  — 

Beneath 

this  humble  but  grateful  monument  rests  all  that  remains  of  one 

who,  after  having,  amidst  the  changes  and  vicissitudes  of  this 

mortal  life,  preserved  a  heart  as  superior  to  them  as  his  condition 

would  admit,  paid  his  debt  to  Nature,  Oct.  — ,  1756. 

Many  years  ago  he  left  his  native  air 

to  breathe  in  British  Freedom; 

and  resigned  his  extensive  territories  in  the  East 

for  less  ample  possessions,  where  his  reception 

was  more  suitable  to  his  merit. 

Exalted  above  the  ignoble  crowd  which  surrounded  him, 

he  maintained  that  native  dignity  which  became  a  consciousness 

of  his  superior  excellence. 

Endowed  by  nature  with  all  the  advantages 
of  person,  he  despised  the  arts  of  dress. 

The  same  easy  temper  which  softened  the  solitude  of  celibacy 
heightened  his  relish  of  the  married  state;    and  the  same  ben- 
evolence which  distinguished  him  in  society  would  have  taught 
him  the  just  discharge  of  parental  duties  had  the  care  of 
posterity  demanded. 

He  never  plumed  his  wings  to  lofty  flights, 

nor  sought  the  refinements  of  Art  where  Nature's 

bounty  could  be  obtained. 

As    he    lived    superior    to    ambition    or    interest,    he    fell    no 

sacrifice  to  party  rage  or  political  malice;    but,  after  the 

long  enjoyment  of  unsullied  reputation,  withdrew 

from  the  stage  on  which  he  had  performed 

his  part  so  well. 

Blush   not,   whosoever  thou   art,   that   with  the   poring   eye  of 

P.    Gemsege  l    or    W.    Toldervey 1    does    decypher    these 

letters,   to   receive  instruction  from  the  example  of  a 

PHEASANT. 

1  Two  old  and  respectable  correspondents  of  Mr.  Urban  (in  The 
Gentleman's  Magazine). 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK    HI 

Only  a  man  of  singular  thoughtfulness  and 
sweetness  of  nature  would  thus  go  to  the  trouble 
of  celebrating  his  pets. 

Modern  poetry  contains  many  such  tributes, 
notably  Matthew  Arnold's  poems  on  Geist  and 
Max,  and  Matthias  the  canary;  but  little  of 
Gough's  tenderness  and  solicitude  had  come 
between  his  own  day  and  that  of  the  bereaved 
gentlemen  of  the  Greek  Anthology,  how  many 
centuries  earlier.  That  is  to  say,  in  literature; 
but,  in  fact,  I  suppose,  men  have  always  loved 
their  pets  with  equal  depths.  There  is  a  dead 
partridge  in  the  Greek  anthology :  — 

No  longer,  poor  partridge  migrated  from  the  rocks,  does  thy 
woven  house  hold  thee  in  its  thin  withies,  nor  under  the  sparkle 
of  fresh-faced  Dawn  dost  thou  ruffle  up  the  edges  of  thy  basking 
wings;  the  cat  bit  off  thy  head,  but  the  rest  of  thee  I  snatched 
away,  and  she  did  not  fill  her  greedy  jaw;  and  now  may  the 
earth  cover  thee  not  lightly  but  heavily,  lest  she  drag  out  thy 
remains. 

That  pairs  off  with  Mr.   Gough's  pheasant,   and 
indeed  may  have  given  him  his  inspiration. 

And  here  are  two  epitaphs  on  favourite  dogs, 
also  hi  Mr.  Mackail's  beautiful  translation :  — 

Here  the  stone  says  it  holds  the  white  dog  from  Melita,  the  most 
faithful  guardian  of  Eumelus;  Bull  they  called  him  while  he  was 
yet  alive;  but  now  his  voice  is  prisoned  in  the  silent  pathways 
of  the  night. 

And 

Thou  who  passest  on  the  path,  if  haply  thou  dost  mark  this 
monument,  laugh  not,  I  pray  thee,  though  it  is  a  dog's  grave; 
tears  fell  for  me,  and  the  dust  was  heaped  above  me  by  a  master's 
hands,  who  likewise  engraved  these  words  on  my  tomb. 


ii2  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Richard  Gough  of  course  knew  these,  and,  as 
I  say,  he  very  probably  took  his  inspiration  from 
them;  but  the  circumstance  does  not  diminish 
the  beauty  of  his  own  affectionate  thoughtfulness 
in  composing  epitaphs  of  his  own  and  having 
them  cut  in  the  stone. 

Nichols,  who,  of  course,  after  his  quaint  manner, 
buries  all  the  human  characteristics  of  his  anti- 
quarian and  scholastic  friends  in  the  small  type 
of  the  footnotes,  gives  also  a  model  address  of 
a  candidate  to  his  constituents  as  prepared  by 
Mr.  Gough  for  a  friend  who  thought  to  contest 
a  seat.  It  is  a  brief  but  amusing  document, 
obviously  the  work  of  a  golden-hearted,  pure- 
minded  recluse,  removed  by  nature  and  circum- 
stances far  from  the  turmoil  of  ambitious  men. 
It  runs  thus :  — 

"I  offer  myself  a  Candidate  to  represent  the 

County  [or  Borough]  of  ,  with  a  determined 

resolution  neither  to  solicit,  nor  influence,  the  votes 
of  the  free  electors.  Superior  to  such  influence 
myself,  I  cannot  condescend  to  bribe  or  intimi- 
date my  countrymen.  I  stand  forth,  therefore, 
on  no  other  ground  than  public  virtue.  If  there 
is  so  much  left  in  this  place  as  to  direct  your 
choice  to  me,  I  shall  be  happy  in  calling  it 
forth,  whether  I  succeed  in  my  election  or  not. 
I  shall  neither  make  nor  authorize  any  other 
application  than  this.  As  I  have  no  ends  of 
my  own  to  serve,  I  profess  myself  of  no 
party;  and  resolved  to  follow  the  dictates  of 
my  own  conscience,  with  respect  to  my  duty, 


MR.    BEMERTON'S    FIRST    BED    BOOK    113 

to    my    Country,    my    Sovereign,    and    my    Con- 
stituents." 

When  Mr.  Gough  himself  came  to  die,  his 
learned  friend  Dr.  Sherwin  said  of  him  in  The 
Gentleman's  Magazine  that  "his  cellar  was  as 
open  to  the  necessities  of  afflicted  industry  as 
his  noble  library  to  the  wants  and  wishes  of 
literary  men."  A  noble  epitaph.  Those  great 
days  have  passed  away.  Gentlemen  no  longer 
have  a  Magazine,  and  many  of  them  cut  a  fine 
enough  figure  without  either  library  or  cellar. 
Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  tendency  of  the 
cellar  to  dwindle  into  a  Tantalus  is  not  the 
most  lamentable  sign  of  the  times. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THESPIS  SENDS  ME  TWO  REPRESENTA- 
TIVES ON  THE  SAME  DAY  AND 
MONOPOLISES  OUR  ATTENTION 

I    WAS    sitting    in     my   room   at  half-past   ten 
wondering     whether     I     should     go     to     the 
Oval  or  to  Lord's  when  a  brisk  rap  sounded  at 
the    door,    it    was    flung    open,    and    in    burst    a 
dazzling,  rustling  creature. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  she  said.  "I  have 
come  to  the  wrong  room.  I  thought  this  was 
Miss  Lestrange's  room." 

I  saw  who  it  was  in  a  flash  —  it  was  Azure 
Verity.  I  told  her  that  Miss  Lestrange  dwelt  in 
some  remote  region  of  this  wonderful  expand- 
ing house  to  which  I  had  never  penetrated,  and 
that  if  she  would  wait  a  moment  I  would  ring 
for  Mrs.  Duckie. 

"Mrs.  who?"  she  asked,  with  an  air  of  such 
perfect  ingenuousness  that  I  was  caught  at  once. 

"Duckie,"  I  said,  and  then  she  laughed,  and  I 
no  doubt  blushed. 

"Not  really?"  she  inquired,  laughing  again. 
114 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     115 

"It  is  absurd,  isn't  it?"  I  said. 

It  his  long  been  my  theory  that  some  of  the 
best  friendships  are  based  upon  a  good  initial 
faux  pas  or  ridiculous  misunderstanding.  The 
freemasonry  of  laughter  gets  to  work  at  once 
and  does  in  an  instant  what  it  otherwise  might 
take  days  or  weeks  to  achieve. 

"May  I  tell  you,"  I  asked,  "who  you  are, 
and  then  we  can  introduce  each  other?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said. 

"You  are  Miss  Azure  Verity,  now  acting  with 
unparalleled  success  at  the  Princess's  Theatre  hi 
Mr.  Operin's  new  play,  and  you  have  come  to 
see  your  dresser,  who  calls  herself  Miss  Lestrange 
but  is  really  Miss  Duckie." 

"Wonderful!"  she  cried.  "You  are  a  Zanzig. 
But,"  she  added,  "so  am  I.  You  know  there 
are  always  two  of  them.  Let  me  now  do  my 
turn." 

I  had  long  since  decided  that  I  would  not  ring 
the  bell  before  it  was  really  necessary. 

"You  are  the  gentleman,"  she  said,  "from 
abroad  who  has  the  beautiful  niece,  and  reads 
old  books  all  night,  and  talks  to  mother  hi  the 
mornings  about  what  London  used  to  be  like 
thirty  years  ago  —  the  gentleman  who  promises  to 
go  to  the  theatre  to  see  Miss  Verity  but  never 
gets  nearer  than  a  music  hall.  Am  I  right,  sir?" 
she  concluded,  with  an  adorably  mischievous  smile. 

"Quite  right,"  I  said.  "We  are  very  extra- 
ordinary people,  it  is  clear,  and  we  ought  to  suc- 
ceed as  duettists." 


n6  OVER  BEMEBTON'S 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "Falconer  and  Verity  —  thought- 
readers  and  clairvoyants.  That  sounds  all  right." 

"Verity  is  indeed  an  inspiration,"  I  added.  "It 
would  make  the  fortune  of  a  palmist." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "don't  make  any  jokes  about 
my  name.  I  am  so  tired  of  them.  Punch  did 
it  again  only  last  week.  Please  ring  for  Mrs.  — 
Mrs.  —  Duckie,"  she  added,  "but  before  I  go  I 
want  you  to  promise  me  something.  Promise 
me  that  if  I  send  you  a  box  you  will  not  only 
come  to  the  theatre  but  bring  your  niece  too.  Will 
you  promise?" 

I  promised,  and  Mrs.  Duckie  appearing,  the 
apparition  disappeared. 

Be-trice's  illness  brought  me  a  second  meeting 
with  her  illustrious  brother  Alf  Pinto.  He  looked 
in  to  see  if  she  was  well  enough  to  be  driven 
to  Epping,  and  by  his  mother's  wish  came  into 
my  room. 

I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  him  at  the 
Frivoli,  and  he  seemed  to  be  as  gratified  as 
any  other  kind  of  artist  would  be.  "But  I've 
got  a  better  song  than  any  of  those,"  he  assured 
me,  and  forthwith  sang  it.  I  suppose  that  to 
be  as  assured  as  that  is  half-way  towards  the 
conquest  of  the  world;  but  for  my  part  I 
could  as  easily  undress  in  a  crowded  drawing- 
room  as  sing  an  unaccompanied  song.  He  fixed 
me  with  his  bold,  roguish  eye  throughout  three 
long  coarse  verses  and  three  inane  choruses. 
And  without  any  shame,  too;  but  indeed  how 
could  he  have  shame,  for  there  was  none  over: 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     117 

I  had  it  all.  I  had  no  notion  where  to  look 
until  he  had  done. 

"That's  a  clinker,  isn't  it?"  he  said,  and  his 
words  once  more  convinced  me  how  needlessly 
we  can  suffer  for  others,  for  they  proved  him 
utterly  oblivious  to  any  confusion  or  want  of 
appreciation  on  my  part. 

I  temporised.  "With  proper  costume  and  a 
full  band  it  ought  to  go  very  well,"  I  said;  and 
I  suppose  it  would,  for  the  thing  was  as  ugly 
and  tawdry  as  the  people  want.  Another  ex- 
posure of  marriage.  The  awakening  after  the 
raptures  of  courtship  to  the  disenchantment  of 
wedded  life:  the  horror  of  crying  twins  and 
a  bad-tempered  wife  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
The  cruelty,  the  hateful  ugliness,  of  this  tireless 
delight  hi  the  ruin  of  the  happiest  of  all  human 
hopes ! 

"Why,"  I  said,  "do  you  always  sing  this  kind 
of  thing?  Why  is  there  no  song  about  a  happy 
marriage  with  some  love  and  trust  hi  it?" 

"Where's  the  joke?"  he  asked. 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  "it  could  be  made 
humorous  or  amusing  enough.  Surely  there 
are  families  that  have  cheerfulness  and  gaiety  as 
well  as  quarrels  and  poverty  and  drink.  Look 
at  your  own  father  and  mother." 

"Not  worth  singing  about,"  he  said.  "No 
fun  in  it." 

I  suppose  this  is  so.  People  go  to  the  music 
halls  to  laugh  at,  not  smile  with.  They  want 
a  target,  and  apparently  they  are  so  constituted 


u8  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

that  they  never  relate  the  experiences  in  the 
songs  to  their  own  lives.  The  shilling  at  the 
pay-box  absolves  them  from  thought,  releases 
them  from  fact;  they,  are  in  fairyland  for  the 
evening  —  or  what  stands  for  fairyland  to  them. 
Otherwise  how  could  any  member  of  the  audience 
face  marriage  or  paternity  at  all? 

The  odd  thing  is  that,  taking  music-hall 
laughter  as  the  test,  the  logical  outcome  is  that 
if  in  England  marriage  were  either  abolished  or 
became  uniformly  successful,  and  if  we  returned 
to  a  state  of  nature  and  called  a  spade  a  spade, 
there  would  be  no  humour  left.  Jokes  came  in 
with  wives  and  clothes. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'm  sorry  if  cheerfulness  is 
so  impracticable.  It  would  be  new,  at  any  rate, 
and  novelty  is  said  to  be  a  great  thing." 

"Not  in  songs,"  replied  Alf.  "They  don't 
want  anything  new  in  songs  except  the  tune. 
They've  all  got  to  be  about  the  same  things 
for  ever  and  ever." 

But  for  all  his  ready-made  cynicism  and 
London  brass,  young  Duckie  is  a  decent  fellow 
who  seems  to  have  character  enough  to  be  able 
to  withstand  the  allurements  of  the  bar.  It  is 
an  odd  way  of  making  a  living,  but  he  works 
at  it  honestly  and  hard. 

He  receives  sometimes,  he  tells  me,  as  many 
as  a  dozen  songs  a  day,  none  of  them  any  good 
at  all.  "Do  you  mean  all  of  them  worse  than 
the  one  you  have  just  sung?"  I  said,  rather 
unkindly. 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     119 

But  he  saw  no  sting.  "Yes,"  he  said  simply. 
"It  is  not  so  easy  as  it  looks,"  he  went  on,  "to 
sing  even  a  good  song;  and  to  make  a  bad 
song,  and  they're  mostly  bad,  go,  wants  hours 
of  practice  not  only  alone  but  with  the  band. 
The  difficult  thing  to  get  is  movement  all  the 
time."  (He  meant  what  a  more  accomplished 
artist  would  call  the  rhythm.)  "It's  not  only 
that  you've  got  to  have  a  voice,  but  you've  got 
to  drive  every  word  home  too,  and  also  keep 
it  going." 

This,  I  gather,  is  where  the  value  of  being 
unashamed  comes  in.  The  music-hall  singer 
must  be  ashamed  of  nothing. 

Our  evening  at  the  Frivoli  to  hear  Alf  had 
been,  I  suppose,  a  success,  for  we  were  all  hi 
good  enough  spirits;  but  with  exceptions  so 
rare  and  far  between  as  to  constitute  oases  which 
only  made  the  desert  the  more  arid,  the  per- 
formance was  dull  and  stupid.  But  we  had 
one  half-hour  of  the  real  thing,  when  a  little 
Scotchman  swung  on  to  the  stage  and  sang 
three  Scotch  songs,  with  every  line  and  every 
syllable  telling.  Curious  songs,  too,  to  come  from 
that  dour  northern  country,  songs  with  an  almost 
Oriental  warmth  in  them  and  an  infectious  and 
irresistible  glee.  I  sounded  Alf  about  this  little 
rival.  He  had  no  jealousy;  he  recognised 
supremacy  and  honoured  it.  "Oh  yes,"  he  said, 
"Lauder  —  he's  a  genius.  He  can  do  what  he 
likes.  There's  no  need  for  him  to  sing  the 
old  stuff.  But  he's  almost  the  only  one.  All 


120  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  rest  of  us  have  got  to  give  it  to  them. 
But,"  he  added,  "why  do  you  bother  about  it, 
Mr.  Falconer?  Music-hall  songs  aren't  written 
for  you.  Music-hall  songs  are  written  for  the 
gallery  and  the  pit,  every  one  of  them,  and 
always  will  be." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "that  may  be  so,  but  I  am 
interested  none  the  less  in  improving  them." 

"Better  leave  it  alone,"  he  answered.  "They're 
as  good  songs  as  the  people  deserve." 

And  perhaps  he  is  right;  but  one's  fingers 
get  in  the  way  of  itching  to  alter  so  many 
things. 

None  the  less  I  think  that  the  music  halls  have 
improved  since  my  young  days.  There  are 
grimy-minded  men  still,  but  the  double  entendre 
is  rarer  than  it  was,  and  a  measure  of  drollery 
has  become  important.  Merely  to  roar  out 
ugliness  is  not  as  sufficient  as  it  used  to  be. 
The  acrobatics,  juggling,  conjuring,  and  other 
exhibitions  of  skill  are  infinitely  superior:  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  to  see  certain  human  gifts 
in  perfection  a  visit  to  the  music  hall  has 
become  a  necessity;  while  that  curious  modern 
extension  of  the  illustrated  newspaper  —  the 
cinematoscope  —  has  also  a  real  interest  of  its 
own,  and  takes  the  place  of  rubbish  very  satis- 
factorily. 

Until  this  spring  I  had  not  been  in  an  English 
music  hall  since  January  1875.  We  made  a 
final  round  of  them  just  before  I  sailed  for  the 
Argentine.  Thirty-three  years  ago!  There  were 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     121 

not  so  many  then,  nor  were  those  that  we  had 
under  such  intensely  business-like  control.  The 
singer  when  he  had  finished  in  those  days 
would  take  his  glass  in  the  hall:  no  tearing  off 
in  a  motor  car  to  perform  again  elsewhere.  It 
was  now  and  then  even  possible  to  get  an 
encore;  there  is  no  such  thing  to-day.  Every- 
thing is  now  cut  and  dried,  and  each  performer 
contrives  to  do  as  little  as  possible,  and  is 
supported  by  his  Union  in  that  praiseworthy 
ideal. 

Alf  was  interested  hi  hearing  of  the  old  easier 
system.  "I'd  often  like  to  give  encores,"  he 
said,  "but  there's  no  chance.  It  would  throw  out 
the  whole  time-table.  But  it's  a  loss  the  singer 
can  feel  quite  as  much  as  the  audience  —  only 
they  don't  know  it."  I  liked  him  for  saying 
that. 

My  last  music  hall  was,  I  remember,  on  a 
Monday  night,  —  I  sailed  on  the  Wednesday  and 
spent  the  Tuesday  night  at  home,  —  and  it  was 
a  very  special  occasion  —  the  benefit  of  Sam 
Adams,  the  manager  of  the  Royal,  in  Holborn. 
I  have  since  been  hi  the  Royal  as  it  is  to-day  — 
it  is  called  the  Holborn  Empire  —  and  how 
changed!  Two  performances  nightly,  and  not 
a  single  thing  the  same  except  its  site.  Sam 
had  a  red,  impetuous  face  and  curly  hair,  and 
a  shirt  front  that,  one  felt,  would  cover  the 
Oval. 

I  asked  Alf  Pinto  about  him,  and  found  that 
his  name  was  not  even  known;  but  Trist  tells 


122  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

me  he  is  dead,  and  his  own  hall  —  the  Trocadero, 
or  Troc,  as  it  was  called  by  the  bloods  —  has 
disappeared  too,  and  is  now  a  restaurant.  Poor 
Sam!  It  is  odd  what  flashes  of  insight  one 
has.  I  remember  thinking  that  night,  in  the 
midst  of  his  triumph  and  all  the  jolly  good- 
fellowship  that  sweltered  round  him,  that  he 
did  not  look  as  if  marked  out  for  happiness  or 
longevity.  « 

I  cannot  remember  much  of  the  evening,  but 
George  Leybourne  was  there  with  two  or  three 
slap-up  songs,  and  Lieutenant  Cole  the  ven- 
triloquist, and  Sam  Redfern,  a  burnt-cork  cynic, 
and  Henri  Clark,  a  comic  singer,  and  an  extra- 
ordinary couple  named  Ryley  and  Marie  Barnum, 
who  called  themselves  (to  the  total  exclusion  of 
George  Fox)  "the  Original  Quakers,"  the  adjec- 
tive made  necessary,  I  imagine,  by  too  successful 
imitation  of  their  discreet  yet  mischievous 
caperings.  Trist  tells  me  that  of  these  enter- 
tainers Leybourne  is  dead  (to  think  that  death 
should  come  also  to  Champagne  Charley!),  Henri 
Clark  owns  a  music-hall  in  the  Edgware  Road, 
and  Sam  Redfern  was  recently  in  the  bank- 
ruptcy court  through  inability  to  make  a  chicken 
farm  pay.  Well,  well! 

But  if  I  can  see  no  more  of  the  performances 
of  these  variety  stars,  there  are  two  or  three  actors 
still  performing  whom  I  saw  that  month  during 
my  farewell  round  of  gaiety.  Lionel  Brough, 
who  was  then  with  Willie  Edouin  and  Lydia 
Thompson  in  Blue  Beard  at  the  Globe,  is  still 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     123 

playing,  and  Wyndham,  who  was  in  Brighton  at 
the  Royal  Court,  is  active  almost  as  ever;  but 
James  Thome,  whom  I  laughed  at  in  Our 
Boys  at  the  Vaudeville,  Irving  who  was  in  Hamlet 
at  the  Lyceum,  Buckstone  and  Sothern  in  Our 
American  Cousin  at  the  Hay  market  —  where  are 
they? 

We  went  to  the  Princess's  —  to  the  Royal  Box, 
if  you  please  —  to  see  Miss  Verity :  Naomi  and 
I,  Lionel,  and  Dollie  Heathcote  with  the  very 
latest  shirt  and  a  dress  suit  watch  no  thicker  than 
half  a  crown.  Serious  plays  are  as  a  rule  not 
much  in  either  Dollie' s  or  Lionel's  way:  and 
Operin  is  now  always  serious,  with  his  con- 
scientious transcript  of  types  from  what  is  called 
real  life  (as  if  there  were  two  kinds  of  life),  who 
talk  pedantic  grammar  and  covet  their  neigh- 
bours' wives.  Some  day  perhaps  a  playwright 
will  arise  observant  enough  to  find  other  domestic 
difficulties  as  full  of  dramatic  possibilities  as  this 
dreary  formula  of  the  tertium  quid;  but  at  present 
we  are  as  much  under  its  sway  as  the  French 
nation  are  under  that  of  their  single  joke.  There 
are  a  thousand  problems  of  daily  life  within  the 
experience  of  every  one  that  have  as  much  drama 
in  them  as  is  needed.  One  would  think  that  all 
England  had  nothing  to  do  but  break  the  seventh 
commandment;  whereas  those  of  us  who  do  so 
are  in  a  minute  minority,  and  are  not  the 
especially  interesting  persons.  Is  there  no 
material  for  drama  in  the  lives  of  husbands 
who  do  not  tire  of  their  wives  and  wives  who 


124  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

do  not  tire  of  their  husbands  —  the  most  enviable 
people  of  all,  when  all  is  said? 

Both  Dollie  and  Lionel,  as  I  say,  would  rather 
have  been  at  a  musical  comedy,  but  they  had  a 
very  real  desire  to  meet  the  famous  Azure,  and 
the  evening  promised  an  opportunity.  Naomi 
was  very  happy  to  be  at  the  play  and  to  wear 
a  new  dress,  neither  event  being  too  common 
with  her;  and  as  for  me,  I  did  not  much  mind, 
for  once,  although  had  I  been  alone  I  should 
probably  have  faltered  at  the  theatre  portico. 
I  have  too  many  points  in  common  with  Wang 
Hiu-Chih,  one  of  the  illustrious  persons  in  my 
Chinese  book,  and  the  occupier  of  a  high  place 
on  the  roll  of  honour  of  the  diffident.  "On 
one  occasion,"  it  is  recorded,  "he  went  in  the 
snow  to  visit  a  friend,  named  Tai  Ta-k'uei;  but 
on  reaching  the  door  he  turned  round  and  went 
home  again.  Being  asked  the  explanation  of 
this  behaviour,  he  replied,  'I  started  full  of 
spirits;  when  they  were  exhausted,  I  came 
back.'"  So  is  it  very  often  with  me;  I  start 
out  full  of  spirits,  and  when  they  are  exhausted 
I  come  back.  Probably  there  are  no  persons 
in  London  at  this  moment  who  in  the  past 
few  months  have  seen  so  many  first  acts,  and 
first  acts  only,  as  I  have.  It  needs  a  very 
engaging  dramatist  or  very  acceptable  perform- 
ers to  make  me  forget  the  allurements  of  the 
word  Exit. 

But  on  the  present  occasion  I  was  on  duty 
and  in  perfect  order.  At  the  end  of  the  second 


THESPIS  SENDS  REPRESENTATIVES     125 

act  a  servant  came  summoning  us  to  Miss 
Verity's  dressing-room.  Naomi  would  not  go, 
try  as  I  would  to  make  her,  but  Dollie  and 
Lionel  hurried  off  with  no  attempts  to  conceal 
their  pleasure.  In  a  very  few  moments,  however, 
they  were  back  again,  and  Miss  Verity  with 
them  —  a  rustle  of  femininity  at  high  pressure. 
"If  you  don't  come  to  see  me,  I  must  come  to 
see  you,"  she  said  very  winningly  to  Naomi;  and 
she  sat  down  at  the  back  of  the  box,  well  out 
of  view,  and  talked  away  gaily  and  extremely 
well.  Why  she  so  wanted  to  make  an  impression 
on  this  quiet  girl  I  did  not  understand;  but  I 
will  venture  the  opinion  that  she  had  never 
worked  harder  to  ingratiate  herself  with  a  man. 

The  entr'acte  was  not  long,  but  long  enough 
for  her  to  wring  from  Naomi  her  consent  to  come 
to  tea. 

"You  are  very  rude,"  she  said  to  me  as  a 
parting  shot.  "You  have  never  said  how  you 
like  me  hi  the  play." 

How  I  wish  I  was  a  better  liar;  or,  hi  other 
words,  less  of  an  intellectual  snob.  I  did  not 
like  her  hi  the  play,  and  I  did  not  like  the  play. 
The  simple  natural  thing  under  such  conditions 
was  to  say,  "You  are  absolutely  delightful,"  but 
having  a  paltry  vanity  as  to  preserving  pure  one's 
twopenny-halfpenny  critical  sense,  I  said  nothing, 
and  instead  was  just  awkward  and  offensive. 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Falconer,"  said  Azure,  who 
divines  swiftly,  "don't  say  anything.  Keep  that 
conscience  intact  whatever  happens." 


126  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

And  so  saying  she  was  gone,  with  Lionel  and 
Dollie  in  attendance.  Such  is  the  vitality  of  her 
personality  that  it  seemed  for  the  moment  as  if 
she  had  taken  all  the  air  with  her  and  we 
languished  in  a  vacuum.  But  only  for  a  moment 
or  so. 

"She  is  very  attractive,"  said  Naomi,  with  a 
little  sigh.  "  It  must  be  nice  to  have  such  power 
and  be  so  popular." 

I  took  her  hand  and  stroked  it. 

Dollie  and  Lionel  here  came  back,  crushed 
their  hats  against  their  bosoms,  and  sat  dawn. 

"She's  a  ripper,"  said  Lionel.  "She's  coming 
to  see  me  play  against  Somerset  to-morrow." 

"Jolly  awkward  if  you  make  a  blob,"  said 
Dollie.  "I've  got  her  autograph." 

"Where?    I  should  like  to  see  it,"  said  Naomi. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "on  my  shirt  front.  That 
means  fifteen  and  six,  for  of  course  I  shan't  wear 
the  shirt  again.  I  shall  have  it  framed.  Isn't  it 
jolly  handwriting?" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS  PRO  TEM,  READ 
A  GOOD  POEM  UNDER  DIFFICULTY, 
AND  LEARN  SOMETHING  OF  WHAT 
IT  MEANS  TO  BE  A  SECOND-HAND 
BOOKSELLER 

I  WAS  writing  letters  at  about  noon,  when 
Mrs.  Duckie  entered  to  see  if  I  would  be 
so  good  as  to  speak  to  Miss  Wagstaff  for  a 
moment.  Down  I  went,  and  found  that  bitter 
mercantile  virgin  all  tears  and  trouble.  She  had 
a  telegram  to  say  that  her  mother  was  ill,  and 
would  she  come  at  once;  but  Mr.  Bemerton  was 
in  the  country  valuing  a  library,  and  who  was 
to  mind  the  shop?  Could  I  make  any  sugges- 
tion? 

I  made  the  only  natural  one:  I  said  I  would 
mind  it  myself. 

This  apparently  had  not  occurred  to  her,  and 
it  seemed  to  strike  Mrs.  Duckie  (who  is  more 
jealous  of  the  fair  fame  of  what  she  calls  gentlefolk 
than  they  themselves  are  likely  ever  to  be)  as  an 
act  of  impropriety  beyond  pardon.  But  I  had 
my  way,  and  at  last  got  Miss  Wagstaff  off  in 

127 


I28  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

a  hansom;  but  not  before  she  had  showered 
instructions  upon  me. 

"The  prices,"  she  said,  "are  marked  just  inside. 
They  are  all  net,  but  if  any  one  bought  several 
books  you  might  knock  something  off.  Don't 
ever  knock  anything  off  a  cheap  book." 

"Be  very  careful,"  she  said,  "with  people  who 
look  at  the  illustrations.  Sometimes  they  pinch 
the  plates." 

"Whatever  you  do,"  she  said,  "don't  buy  any 
books." 

"Keep  an  eye,"  she  said,  "on  the  outside 
shelves." 

"Don't  let  any  one,"  she  said,  "stand  too  long 
reading." 

"See  that  they  don't  slip  one  book  into  their 
pocket  while  they  buy  another,"  she  said. 

"Watch  them,"  she  said,  "to  see  that  they 
don't  rub  out  our  price  and  put  in  another 
themselves." 

That,  I  think,  was  her  very  last  counsel.  I 
sank  down  in  a  chair  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  I  had 
not  been  prepared  for  such  revelations  of  perfidy. 
I  had  thought  of  a  second-hand  bookshop  as 
being  off  the  main  stream  of  human  frailty  and 
temptation;  and  behold  it  was  the  resort  of  the 
most  abandoned!  Is  there  no  natural  honesty? 
I  wished  that  Mr.  Bemerton  would  return  and 
liberate  me  to  walk  upstairs  out  of  life  again  and 
get  on  with  my  make-believe. 

It  gave  me  at  the  same  time  a  new  idea  of 
Miss  Wagstaff,  and  I  found  myself  admiring 


I   GO  INTO  BUSINESS  PRO   TEM       129 

her.  How  naturally  she  took  these  things;  how 
simple  and  right  it  seemed  to  her  that  customers 
should  be  suspect ;  while  I  —  I  had  been  sunning 
myself  in  a  comfortable  sense  of  all-pervading 
virtue,  and  was  now  cowering  beneath  the  dis- 
covery of  the  contrary  —  I,  a  man  of  fifty  and 
more,  who  had  some  claims  to  be  considered  a 
cosmopolitan  and  citizen  of  the  world,  and  she 
a  Cockney  spinster  with  no  experience  of  any- 
thing but  her  home  and  this  shop. 

But  a  customer  coming  in,  I  had  to  suspend 
my  reflections  and  attend  to  business,  which  hi 
this  case  consisted  in  replying,  with  some  decision, 
that  we  never  bought  last  year's  Whitaker's 
Almanack.  The  adaptability  of  man  —  how 
naturally  I  said  "we" ! 

Apart  from  the  necessity  of  replenishing  his 
stock  by  attending  sales  and  buying  books;  the 
wearing  task  of  looking  narrowly  at  larcenous 
fellow-creatures;  the  pangs  that  it  must  cost  him 
to  sell  the  books  that  he  wants  to  keep;  and  the 
attacks  made  upon  his  tenderer  feelings  by  un- 
fortunate impoverished  creatures  with  worthless 
books  to  sell;  apart  from  these  drawbacks,  the 
life  of  a  second-hand  bookseller  seems  to  me  a 
happy  one.  I  could  myself  lead  it  with  consider- 
able contentment.  During  my  four  hours  of 
authority  I  took  eleven  shillings,  met  some  en- 
tertaining people,  discovered  on  the  shelves  a 
number  of  interesting  books,  and  read  at  intervals 
a  poem  I  had  long  known  by  repute  but  never  had 
seen  before  —  Walter  Pope's  "Wish." 
K 


130  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

A  second-hand  bookseller,  I  found,  may  read 
much  in  his  time,  but  he  cannot  read  continu- 
ously. My  perusal  of  Walter  Pope's  poem  was 
broken  somewhat  in  the  way  I  have  attempted 
to  describe.  I  got  through  the  Horatian  argu- 
ment all  right :  — 

"When  I'm  at  Epsom  or  on  Banstead  Down, 
Free  from  the  Wine,  and  Smoke,  and  Noise  o'  th'  Town, 
When  I  those  Waters  drink  and  breathe  that  Air, 
What  are  my  Thoughts?     What's  my  continual  Prayer?" 

and  I  was  allowed  to  complete  in  peace  the  first 
stanza  and  the  chorus :  — 

"Hi  I  live  to  be  old,  for  I  find  I  go  down, 
Let  this  be  my  fate  in  a  country  town: 
May  I  have  a  warm  house,  with  a  stone  at  the  gate, 
And  a  cleanly  young  girl  to  rub  my  bald  pate. 

CHORUS 

May  I  govern  my  passion  with  an  absolute  sway, 
And  grow  wiser  and  better,  as  my  strength  wears  away, 
Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle  decay." 

But  here  entered  a  very  small  dirty  boy  to  know 
if  I  could  spare  his  mother  a  piece  of  stamp 
paper. 

I  said  it  was  the  one  thing  we  didn't  keep,  and 
resumed  the  poem:  — 

"May  my  little  house  stand  on  the  side  of  a  hill, 
With  an  easy  descent  to  a  mead  and  a  mill, 
That  when  I've  a  mind  I  may  hear  my  boy  read  — 
In  the  mill  if  it  rains;  if  it's  dry,  in  the  mead. 

Near  a  shady  grove  and  a  murmuring  brook, 
With  the  ocean  at  distance,  whereon  I  may  look, 
With  a  spacious  plain,  without  hedge  or  stile, 
And  an  easy  pad-nag  to  ride  out  a  mile." 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS  PRO   TEM        131 

At  this  point  there  entered  a  rusty  elderly  man 
with  a  Cruden's  Concordance,  to  know  if  I  would 
buy  it.  I  said  we  already  had  several,  and  I  could 
not  as  a  conscientious  business  man  add  to  the 
stock.  He  sighed,  surveyed  me  attentively,  and 
went  away,  saying  that  he  would  bring  something 
else.  I  implored  him  not  to,  but  with  an  ineffable 
look  of  misfortune  he  shuffled  away.  I  turned 
again  to  the  page :  — 

"With  Horace  and  Petrarch,  and  two  or  three  more 
Of  the  best  wits  that  reign'd  in  the  ages  before; 
With  roast  mutton,  rather  than  ven'son  or  teal, 
And  clean,  though  coarse  linen,  at  every  meal. 

With  a  pudding  on  Sundays,  with  stout  humming  liquor, 
And  remnants  of  Latin  to  welcome  the  vicar; 
With  Monte,  Fiascone,  or  Burgundy  wine, 
To  drink  the  king's  health  as  of t  as  I  dine. 

May  my  wine  be  vermilion,  may  my  malt  drink  be  pale, 
In  neither  extreme,  or  too  mild  or  too  stale; 
In  lieu  of  desserts,  unwholesome  and  dear, 
Let  Lodi  or  Parmesan  bring  up  the  rear. 

Nor  Tory,  or  Whig,  Observator,  or  Trimmer 
May  I  be,  nor  against  the  law's  torrent  a  swimmer; 
May  I  mind  what  I  speak,  what  I  write,  and  hear  read, 
And  with  matters  of  State  never  trouble  my  head." 

At  this  point  a  lady  faltered  in,  saying  she 
felt  very  fault,  and  might  she  sit  down  a  moment. 
I  gave  her  my  chair,  and  called  to  Mrs.  Duckie 
for  some  water.  The  lady  told  me  her  home 
was  in  Ashford,  and  she  was  only  up  for  the  day, 
having  to  get  some  things  for  her  boy  who  was 
joining  a  merchant-ship,  and  did  I  know  where 
Heronsgate  Mansions  were,  because  she  had  a 


132  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

cousin  living  there  whom  she  would  like  to  see, 
and  was  there  a  good  dentist  in  this  neighbour- 
hood, and  could  I  tell  her  if  the  4.43  to  Ashford 
was  still  running. 

Having  at  length  resumed  my  chair,  I  proceeded 
with  Walter  Pope :  — 

"Let  the  gods,  who  dispose  of  every  king's  crown, 
Whomsoever  they  please,  set  up  and  pull  down; 
I'll  pay  the  whole  shilling  impos'd  on  my  head, 
Tho'  I  go  without  claret  that  night  to  my  bed.  .  .  . 

Tho'  I  care  not  for  riches,  may  I  not  be  so  poor 
That  the  rich  without  shame  cannot  enter  my  door; 
May  they  court  my  converse,  may  they  take  much  delight 
My  old  stories  to  hear  in  a  winter's  long  night."  .  .  . 


The  rusty  man  here  came  in  again,  and  after 
spending  a  moment  at  the  shelves,  offered  me 
another  book,  and  pitched  such  a  tale  of  woe  that 
I  bought  it  for  myself.  Two  days  afterwards,  I 
may  here  remark,  Miss  Wagstaff  came  up  to  ask 
me  if  I  had  sold  a  copy  of  Rogers'  Italy  with  Tur- 
ner's plates  while  I  was  in  charge. 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  I  bought  one." 

She  examined  it  swiftly,  and  informed  me 
that  it  was  their  own  copy  which  had  been  sold 
to  me. 

"He  spotted  you  for  a  greenhorn  all  right," 
she  said.  "And  had  a  starving  family,  hadn't 
he?  And  was  only  just  out  of  the  Brompton 
Hospital?" 

I  said  it  was  so. 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS  PRO   TEM        133 

"Oh  that  Brompton  Hospital!"  she  added. 
"Life  would  be  quite  simple  if  it  had  never  been 
built.  They've  all  got  some  one  there  when  they 
want  to  sell  a  book." 

I  gave  Miss  Wagstaff  the  book  again,  and 
said  I  was  very  sorry. 

"You'll  always  be  taken  in,"  she  said,  as  she 
hurried  off.  "You  go  about  asking  for  it." 

Probably;  but  how  can  one  say  no  to  certain 
forms  of  distress,  real  or  so  well-managed  as  to 
seem  real?  After  my  experiences  I  know  that 
it  is  not  the  disposal  of  books  that  presents  the 
greatest  difficulty  to  a  bookseller,  but  the  acquisi- 
tion of  them.  At  least  I  know  that  that  would 
be  the  case  with  me.  My  difficulty  would  always 
be  to  refuse  to  buy  the  books  which  the  unhappy 
persons  brought  in.  A  very  little  while  after  the 
shabby  man  had  departed  with  his  ill-gotten  gains, 
a  neat  little  old  woman  entered  with  a  brown  paper 
parcel  which  she  undid  with  excessive  deliberation 
and  care,  revealing  at  last  a  shabby  copy  of  an 
odd  volume  of  Rowe's  Shakespeare.  At  the  same 
time  she  took  out  of  her  purse  a  folded  newspaper 
cutting  and  placed  it  in  my  hands.  Then  she 
looked  at  me  with  an  expression  in  which  excite- 
ment, hope,  and  fear  were  almost  unbearably 
blended. 

The  wretched  cutting,  as  I  knew  by  inspired 
prevision,  related  to  the  sale  of  a  first  folio,  which, 
after  spirited  bidding,  was  knocked  down  for 
£987.  The  pathetic  figure  before  me  had  read 
the  paper,  had  dimly  remembered  that  among  her 


I34  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

dead  husband's  books  was  an  old  Shakespeare, 
and  at  last,  with  a  beating  heart,  had  found  it 
and  seen  infinite  possibilities  of  debt-paying  and 
comfort  before  her. 

What  was  I  to  do?  She  was  manifestly  so 
truthful,  and  the  hope  dying  out  of  her  poor 
eager  face  left  it  so  wan  and  wintry. 

A  second-hand  bookseller,  I  suppose,  having 
chosen  to  be  a  second-hand  bookseller  and  to  live 
by  his  choice,  has  a  short  way  with  such  clients. 
I  know  he  must  have.  But  I  wondered  what 
Mr.  Bemerton  would  do,  that  is,  if  Miss  Wagstaff 
permitted  him  to  come  on  in  that  scene  at  all. 
The  disparity  between  anything  that  I  could  give 
her  and  the  sum  she  was  expecting  was  clearly 
so  immense  that  I  did  nothing  at  all.  I  merely 
said  I  was  very  sorry,  and  bowed  her  out,  and 
returned  once  more  to  Walter  Pope. 

"May  none  whom  I  love  to  so  great  riches  rise 
As  to  slight  their  acquaintance  and  their  old  friends  despise; 
So  low  or  so  high  may  none  of  them  be 
As  to  move  either  pity  or  envy  in  me.  .  .  . 

To  outlive  my  senses  may  it  not  be  my  fate 

To  be  blind,  to  be  deaf,  to  know  nothing  at  all; 

But  rather  let  death  come  before  'tis  so  late, 

And  while  there's  some  sap  in  it  may  my  tree  fall.  .  .  ." 

Here  a  little  girl  from  a  neighbouring  shop  ran 
hi  to  ask  for  two  sixpences  for  a  shilling. 

"You  won't  buy  a  nice  set  of  Dickens,  too?" 
I  asked  her,  quite  in  the  Wagstaffian  manner,  I 
thought. 

"Not   to-day,"   she   said   gravely,   with   perfect 


I  GO  INTO  BUSINESS  PRO    TEM        135 

London  readiness;  "but  mother' 11  be  wanting  the 
washing-book  bound  in  morocco  next  week." 

"With  a  courage  undaunted  may  I  face  my  last  day, 
And  when  I  am  dead  may  the  better  sort  say: 
In  the  morning  when  sober,  in  the  evening  when  mellow, 
He's  gone,  and  not  left  behind  him  his  fellow.  .  .  . 

I  care  not  whether  under  a  turf  or  a  stone, 
With  any  inscription  upon  it  or  none, 
If  a  thousand  years  hence,  'Here  lies  W.  P.' 
Shall  be  read  on  my  tomb;  what  is  it  to  me?" 

Here  entered  a  studious-looking  youth  who  wished 
to  know  if  I  had  a  copy  of  Hoffding's  Psychology. 
I  said  no;  and  almost  immediately  after  came 
a  commanding  matron  with  her  daughter  for  a 
complete  set  of  Trollope  for  an  invalid  son  who 
was  going  a  voyage  to  the  Cape.  I  said  I  was 
sorry,  but  I  could  not  tell  whether  I  had  one 
or  not:  I  was  not  the  real  bookseller,  and  knew 
nothing  of  the  stock. 

"I  call  it  disgraceful,"  said  the  lady.  "Mis- 
management on  all  sides.  We've  only  just  been 
to  the  Stores,  and  failed  to  get  a  pocket  sextant. 
I  can't  think  what's  coming  to  London.  Where 
are  the  standard  novels  kept  in  this  shop?"  she 
asked  sternly. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  I  replied.  "Let's  hunt  for 
them  together." 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said.  "I  have  no  time," 
and  off  she  marched;  but  not  before  her  daughter, 
who  looked  as  if  she  wished  to  sink  into  the 
earth  for  shame,  had  thrown  me  a  glance  of 
sympathetic  compassion  which  was  a  perfect  balm 


136  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

for  any  wounds  I  might  have  received.     And  then 
I  finished  Walter  Pope's  poem:  — 

"Yet  one  wish  I  add,  for  the  sake  of  those  few 
Who  in  reading  those  lines  any  pleasure  shall   take, 
May  I  leave  a  good  fame  and  a  sweet-smelling  name.  — 
Amen.     Here  an  end  of  my  wishes  I  make. 

CHORUS 

May  I  govern  my  passion  with  an  absolute  sway, 

And  grow  wiser  and  better,  as  my  strength  wears  away, 

Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle  decay." 

That  is  the  song  which  Benjamin  Franklin 
sang,  as  he  informed  George  Whately,  a  thousand 
times  when  he  was  young;  "but  now,"  he  added, 
at  fourscore,  "I  find  that  all  three  of  the  con- 
traries have  befallen  me." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  IS  ILLUS- 
TRATED, AND  I  BECOME  A  MONEY- 
LENDER 

ONE  of  the  strangest  phenomena  in  this  life 
of  ours,  I  often  think,  is  the  way  in 
which  one  thing  leads  to  another.  We  million 
mortals  may  live  alone,  each  in  his  sea  of  life 
enisled,  but  our  influence  on  each  other  is  con- 
tinuous and  remarkable,  and  —  and  this  is  the 
thought  that  pulls  one  up  so  suddenly  —  very 
often  unconscious.  It  is  not  every  pebble,  so  to 
speak,  that  we  drop  into  the  water  that  makes 
rings:  the  water  is  often  already  too  restless  to 
feel  it;  but  the  widening  circumference  of  the 
rings  that  even  an  idler's  stone  can  produce 
are  almost  terrifying  to  think  of.  The  facile 
moralist  would  say  that  this  being  so,  people 
of  strong  or  attractive  personality  must  be 
very  careful:  but  to  be  careful  is  useless.  A 
capricious  fate  more  powerful  than  the  vigilant 
self-protectiveness  of  any  human  being  is  in 
command. 

I  am  led  to  these  reflections  by  something  that 


138  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

happened  at  Bemerton's  in  the  afternoon  on  that 
summer  day.  It  was  about  a  quarter  to  three, 
and  Mr.  Bemerton  was  due  back  at  three  exactly, 
when  a  nice-looking  schoolboy  of  about  fourteen, 
with  a  frank  and  courageous  countenance,  walked 
in  carrying  a  book. 

This  he  handed  me,  a  little  self-consciously, 
with  a  request  to  know  if  I  could  give  him  a 
shilling  for  it.  It  was  Hall  and  Knight's  Algebra, 
and  inside  was  written  Estabrook  I. 

Now  I  am  no  censor,  but  I  have  certain  fixed 
theories  as  to  the  law  of  meum  and  tuum  and 
the  training  of  boys,  and  also  some  undimmed 
recollections  of  the  financial  straits  of  my  own 
schooldays;  moreover,  I  liked  this  boy's  ingenuous 
face. 

So  I  said,  "The  book  is  yours  to  sell,  of 
course?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  he  replied. 

"You  bought  it  with  your  own  money?"  I 
continued  Socratically. 

"Well,  I  didn't  exactly  buy  it  with  my  own 
money,"  he  admitted.  "But  it's  mine:  that's  my 
name  in  it." 

"A  schoolbook,"  I  said:  "one  that  you  use  in 
your  lessons?" 

"I  shan't  want  it  again,"  he  replied;  "I  go 
into  another  form  next  term." 

"But  you  think  you  have  a  right  to  sell  it,  as 
it  was  brought  for  you  and  you  only?" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  I  do,"  he  answered;  "and  I 
want  a  bob  to-day  most  fearfully.  We've  got  a 


THE  LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  139 

half-holiday,  and  it's  the  Yorkshire  match  at  the 
Oval." 

"You  think  your  father  would  like  to  know 
that  you  are  raising  money  on  a  schoolbook  to 
go  to  a  cricket  match?"  I  asked. 

"  But  I've  done  with  it,"  he  repeated. 

"You  think  your  father  would  like  to  know? 
That  is  the  whole  point.  If  you  can  assure  me 
that  he  would  not  mind  your  selling  the  school- 
book  like  this  just  for  an  afternoon's  pleasure,  I 
will  give  you  a  shilling  for  it  at  once." 

He  thought  a  little  while  and  shuffled  his  feet, 
and  his  fine  face  clouded. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  "he  wouldn't  like  it," 
and  he  put  out  his  hand  to  take  the  book  back. 

"How  much  pocket-money  do  you  get?"  I 
asked,  as  I  gave  it  to  him. 

"Threepence  a  week,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  will  lend  you  the  shilling, 
and  you  can  pay  me  back  as  soon  as  it  is 
convenient." 

"Oh,  I  say,  how  frightfully  decent  of  you!"  he 
exclaimed. 

So  I  handed  him  the  shilling,  and  he  crammed 
the  book  into  his  pocket  and  rushed  off,  being 
joined  just  outside  by  a  smaller  boy  whom  I 
guessed  to  be  Estabrook  II. 

Estabrook!  Now  you  see  the  conjunction  of 
ideas,  for  one  of  my  closest  companions  at  school 
forty  years  ago  had  been  an  Estabrook,  and  it  is 
not  a  common  name.  Could  this  boy,  I  wondered, 
be  the  son  of  my  old  friend?  I  had  not  long  to 


140  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

wait  to  discover,  for  an  unexpected  tip  from  an 
uncle  made  it  possible  for  him  to  discharge  his 
debt  quickly,  and  he  was  back  within  a  week  with 
the  shilling  in  his  hand. 

Bemerton  sent  him  upstairs  to  me,  after  hav- 
ing explained  that  I  was  not  really  the  bookseller, 
but  an  eccentric  gentleman  masquerading  as  such; 
and  I  asked  him  at  once  about  his  father,  and 
soon  ascertained  that  it  was  really  my  old  school- 
fellow; and  so  I  gave  Kenneth,  which  was  the 
debtor's  name,  a  message  to  the  effect  that  I 
should  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon 
him  next  Sunday  afternoon.  We  agreed  that 
nothing  should  be  said  as  to  the  circumstances 
under  which  Kenneth  and  I  had  originally  met: 
all  we  were  to  say  was  that  we  had  come  upon 
each  other  accidentally  in  Bemerton's.  This 
harmless  compact  of  secrecy  made,  as  must  so 
often  have  been  the  case,  a  very  firm  foundation 
of  our  friendship  —  a  friendship  which  led  to  some 
very  agreeable  afternoons. 

But  see  how  it  came  about.  The  Rev.  Ephraim 
Pye-Lipwood,  tiring  of  horses,  buys  a  motor-car 
of  one  of  his  parishioners.  He  goes  for  his  first 
ride  and  forgets  to  put  on  enough  wraps.  He 
catches  a  cold,  which  develops  into  double 
pneumonia,  and  he  dies.  His  widow  wishes  to 
sell  his  library,  and  asks  a  friend  to  recommend  a 
good  dealer.  The  friend  recommends  Mr.  Joseph 
Bemerton  of  Westminster,  and  Mr.  Bemerton 
arranges  to  go  down  by  the  10.7  from  Victoria 
on  Tuesday. 


THE  LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  141 

He  does  so,  leaving  the  shop  in  the  capable 
hands  of  Miss  Ruth  Wagstaff.  Meanwhile  what 
does  Miss  Wagstaff 's  mother  do?  For  a  long  time 
she  has  not  been  quite  herself :  ever  since,  in  fact,  she 
ate  that  pork  chop  at  her  sister's  husband's  aunt's. 
Nothing  somehow  has  seemed  to  agree  with  her 
since;  and  her  dyspepsia  came  to  a  head  this 
very  morning,  at  about  half-past  ten,  just  as  Mr. 
Bemerton  in  his  third-class  compartment  had 
finished  The  Daily  Telegraph. 

Hence  the  summons  to  Miss  Wagstaff,  and 
cause  of  my  finding  myself  stationed  in  the  shop 
all  ready  to  deal  with  Master  Kenneth  Estabrook, 
and  thus  resume  acquaintance  with  an  old  friend 
and  make  acquaintance  with  a  delightful  family. 
We  never  know  when  we  are  moulding  destiny. 

The  Estabrooks  have  six  children,  for  they 
belong  to  a  generation  that  was  not  afraid  of 
such  liabilities.  Estabrook  is  a  stockbroker  in  a 
comfortable  way,  and  they  live  in  a  large  house  in 
the  Cromwell  Road  almost  opposite  the  Natural 
History  Museum,  which  is  a  regular  Sunday  after- 
noon resort  hi  winter.  The  children  are  four  boys 
and  two  girls.  Kenneth  is  the  eldest;  then  comes 
John,  who  is  at  Osborne,  and  has  the  proud 
privilege  of  calling  Prince  Edward  of  York 
"Sardines"  (which  is,  I  am  told,  the  very  natural 
nickname  of  one  destined  later  to  take  his  title 
from  Wales,  i.e.  whales  in  schoolboy  humour) ; 
then  comes  Christopher,  who  is  at  Westminster 
(Estabrook  II);  then  Norah,  aged  ten;  Winifred, 
aged  eight;  and  Sam,  aged  six. 


142  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

They  seem  to  me  very  nice  children,  but  a 
shade  over-sophisticated,  and  with  the  modern 
touch  of  mockery.  In  my  innocence  I  offered  the 
youngest  a  beautiful  piece  of  silver  paper  from 
a  packet  of  tobacco,  such  as  would  have  made 
me,  at  his  age,  feel  something  like  a  million- 
aire. But  it  had  no  attractions  for  him.  His 
toys  are  ready-made,  I  imagine,  and  cost 
money. 

After  Kenneth,  I  think  that  my  favourite  is 
Norah,  whom  the  others  rather  impose  upon  (it  is 
ill  to  be  the  first  girl  in  a  family  that  already 
numbers  three  boys),  and  Norah,  I  think,  likes  me. 
I  have  already  taken  her  to  the  Hippodrome,  to 
the  Zoo,  and  to  the  Exhibition;  and  I  don't 
in  the  least  see  why  she  should  not  have  a  pony 
and  ride  straddle-legged  in  the  Park  as  the  little 
girls  now  do.  Little  girls  are  little  girls  for  so 
short  a  time:  they  have  such  a  way  of  leaving  the 
room  frank,  loving,  uncalculating  creatures,  and 
returning  in  a  few  moments  (so  to  speak)  as  women, 
with  their  hair  up  and  their  skirts  down  and  views 
on  art  and  music;  that  it  behoves  their  elderly 
admirers  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  opportuni- 
ties of  enjoying  their  society  while  they  are  still 
children. 

Life  is  strangely  suspicious  and  impatient  of 
youth  and  candour  and  innocence  and  nawett. 
Hardly  does  it  perceive  these  exquisite  qualities  to 
exist  than  it  rubs  away  their  bloom  with  a  rough 
finger.  How  often  one  longs  for  an  arrested 
progress  —  for  a  little  girl  to  go  on  being  a  little 


THE  LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  143 

girl  a  little  longer;  for  the  perpetual  kitten  of 
our  dreams!  But  no;  the  Creator  is  not  that 
kind  of  artist. 

I  took  upstairs  with  me  a  fine  copy  of  Paterson's 
Roods,  a  book  I  had  not  seen  since  the  sixties, 
when  I  used  often  to  pore  over  my  father's  copy 
and  set  forth  on  imaginary  journeys  from  London 
to  Truro,  London  to  Norwich,  London  to  Dover, 
London  to  Everywhere,  with  Paterson's  aid.  I 
remember  how  proud  I  used  to  be  to  find  our  own 
ancestor  in  the  margin  —  John  Murray  Falconer, 
Esq.,  of  West  Wolves  House,  Long  Melton,  five 
miles  north  of  Cirencester,  my  father's  grandfather; 
and  Wilmington  Oakes,  Esq.,  of  Masters  Hall, 
just  to  the  west  of  Evesham,  grandfather  of  my 
mother.  I  had,  indeed,  an  ambition  at  that  time 
some  day  to  be  in  Paterson  myself,  not  knowing 
that  the  book  was  already  outmoded,  and  that  I 
was  doomed  to  spend  most  of  my  life  in  a  country 
where  roads  are  chiefly  tracks. 

Paterson's  noble  book,  once  in  every  country 
house  and  most  town  houses,  is  now  rare,  but  it 
remains  the  best  outline  account  of  England  in 
existence.  Publishers  may  vie  with  each  other  in 
bringing  out  guide-books,  and  highway-and-byway 
books,  and  atlases  and  gazetteers;  but  Paterson's 
Roads  still  conquers.  Everything  about  the  best 
edition  of  it  is  right:  its  arrangement,  its  type, 
its  spaciousness,  its  interest  in  gentlemen's  places, 
its  little  pictures  of  turnpike  gates,  its  careful 
information;  but  most  of  all  its  period,  before 
rails  came  in,  when  horses  were  still  honoured, 


144  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

and  postboys  never  died,  and  innkeepers 
flourished. 

Paterson  may  be  said  to  pair  off  with  Fielding. 
He  is  Fielding's  courier,  so  to  speak.  Fielding 
has  the  romance;  Paterson  finds  the  roads  and 
looks  after  the  luggage  and  the  horses.  He  is  a 
companion  to  Pickwick,  too:  a  serious,  methodical 
Sam  Weller.  Spend  an  hour  with  Paterson,  and 
you  will  have  the  England  of  Tom  Jones  and 
Samuel  Pickwick  before  you;  you  will  know  it 
through  and  through.  The  period  between  these 
two  books  was  Paterson' s  period.  Tom  Jones  was 
published  in  1749,  Pickwick  in  1837;  Daniel 
Paterson  was  born  in  1739  and  died  in  1825, 
living  towards  the  end  so  quietly  that  Edward 
Mogg,  who  brought  out  a  sixteenth  edition  in 
1822  and  dedicated  it  to  George  iv.,  referred  to 
its  true  author  as  "the  late." 

Of  Daniel  Paterson  little  —  far  too  little  —  is 
known,  save  that  he  was  an  officer  and  a  gentle- 
man. I  have  been  looking  him  up.  He  was 
successively  ensign,  lieutenant,  captain,  major,  and 
lieutenant-colonel  of  infantry.  For  a  long  time 
he  was  assistant  to  the  Quartermaster- General  at 
the  Horse  Guards,  and  in  1771  his  road  book 
was  first  published  and  dedicated  to  his  supe- 
rior officer.  In  1812  he  was  made  Lieutenant- 
Governor  of  Quebec,  a  post  he  still  held  at  his 
death.  There's  a  melancholy  fate  for  the  author 
of  the  best  English  road  book.  Quebec !  It  was 
probably  due  to  this  enforced  exile  that  to 
Edward  Mogg  fell  the  task  of  bringing  the  great 


THE  LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  145 

work  up  to  date;  but  he  certainly  ought  to  have 
known  that  its  author  was  still  living.  Daniel 
Paterson's  grave  is  at  Clewer,  near  Windsor;  but 
where  he  was  born  I  know  not. 

One  can  open  Paterson  at  random,  sure  to 
alight  on  some  name  that  will  quicken  and  kindle 
the  memory.  For  example,  I  opened  it  last 
night  at  page  524  —  and  had  good  luck,  coming 
at  once  upon  the  great  name  of  John  Warde. 
Page  524  is  in  the  Cross-Roads  section,  and  the 
gallant  Colonel  (assisted  by  Edward  Mogg)  is 
taking  us  from  Maidstone  to  Guildford,  by 
Westerham,  Reigate,  and  Dorking.  Against 
Westerham,  a  quiet  Kentish  town  with  some 
significance  for  himself,  since  it  was  there  that 
Wolfe  was  born,  —  destined  in  time  to  make 
Quebec  a  city  requiring  a  Lieutenant-Governor, 
—  against  Westerham  he  draws  our  attention  to 
Squerryes,  the  seat  of  John  Warde,  Esq.;  and  is 
not  John  Warde  of  Squerryes  one  of  Nimrod's 
heroes?  "Whoever,"  says  that  large-hearted  man, 
"heard  him  utter  an  ill-natured  word  respecting 
any  one,  living  or  dead?  Where  was  there  a 
kinder  friend  or  a  better  neighbour?  And,  above 
all  things,  where  was  his  equal  as  a  companion?" 
That  was  the  whole-hearted  way  hi  which  sports- 
men used  to  write  of  each  other  in  the  forties, 
before  Paterson's  Roads  was  quite  out  of  date. 
"Rough  as  was  his  exterior,  Mr.  Warde  was 
accomplished  and  well  informed,  and  capable  of 
adapting  his  conversation  to  any  society  into 
which  he  might  be  thrown.  In  short,  it  is  a 


146  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

matter  of  doubt  whether  there  has  existed  a  man 
whose  name  has  not  been  long  before  the  public 
either  in  the  capacity  of  a  senator,  a  soldier,  a 
sailor,  or  an  author,  so  universally  known  as  Mr. 
Warde  of  Squerryes,  in  Kent,  was  to  all  English- 
men in  all  quarters  of  the  globe."  Such  was 
John  Warde,  for  fifty-seven  years  a  Master  of 
Foxhounds,  and  known  as  "The  Father  of  the 
Field." 

Mr.  Warde  did  a  little  in  the  way  of  La  Roche- 
foucauld and  Vauvenargues,  but  his  maxims  rarely 
departed  from  sport,  although,  of  course,  a  man 
who  is  qualified  to  write  sound  maxims  for  sports- 
men is  automatically  qualified  also  to  sum  up  life. 
Here  are  some  of  the  sententiae  of  John  Warde, 
Esq.,  of  Squerryes,  Master  of  the  Pytchley  and 
other  Hunts,  as  reported  by  Nimrod's  pen :  — 

"Half  the  goodness  of  a  horse  goes  in  at  his 
mouth." 

"Never  buy  a  horse  from  a  rich  man  who 
hunts,  or  from  a  poor  man  till  you  have  tried 
him." 

"Never  believe  a  word  any  man  says  about  a 
horse  he  wishes  to  sell  — not  even  a  bishop." 

"Never  refuse  a  good  dinner  from  home,  unless 
you  have  a  better  at  home." 

"Never  keep  a  drinking  man — nor  a  very 
pretty  maid-servant." 

Most  of  the  successful  conduct  of  life  could 
be  secured  by  careful  obedience  to  these  five 
counsels. 

Paterson's   was  by  no   means   the  first     road- 


THE   LINKEDNESS  OF  LIFE  147 

book;  but  it  is  the  best.  Mr.  Bemerton  showed 
me  the  other  day  Ogilvy's,  a  delightful  series  of 
copper-plates,  fourth  edition,  dated  1753.  Every 
word  in  it  is  engraved,  which  makes  reading  some- 
times a  little  difficult,  but  the  effort  is  worth 
making.  The  great  charm  of  the  book  is  that  all 
the  journeys  start  from  London,  and  the  road  is 
pictured  the  whole  way.  Every  mile  is  marked. 
Thus  the  journey  from  London  to  Berwick,  260 
computed  and  339  measured  miles,  takes  ten 
pages  of  three  columns  each.  Nothing  is  needed 
but  gradients  and  a  few  technical  particulars  to 
make  it  still  perfect  for  the  motorist.  It  would  be 
an  agreeable  task  to  bring  one  of  these  books  into 
line  with  the  present  day  of  machinery  and  petrol, 
—  agreeable,  although  tinged  with  melancholy. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MR.  DUCKIE,  WITH  HIS  NAPKIN  ON 
HIS  ARM,  SUGGESTS  A  SCHEME  FOR 
HUMAN  HAPPINESS 

TO-DAY  I  carried  out  my  promise  of  lunch- 
ing at  the  Golden  Horn  and  testing  the 
quality  not  only  of  the  house's  famous  saddle, 
but  also  of  Mr.  Duckie's  skill  as  a  waiter.  He 
had  reserved  a  corner  seat  in  one  of  the  pews, 
and  had  evidently  given  orders  to  his  assistant 
that  I  was  to  be  well  looked  after:  an  agreeable 
attention,  but  carrying  with  it  the  necessary 
corollary,  in  an  English  eating-house,  that  other 
guests  were  neglected. 

I  was  amused  by  a  father  and  son  who 
occupied  the  same  compartment.  This  father 
was  evidently  of  the  Temple  —  a  man  of  about 
fifty,  and  intensely  proud  of  his  son,  a  youth  from 
Oxford,  who,  however,  no  matter  what  learning 
his  head  might  hold,  was  too  callow  to  fancy 
exhibitions  of  paternal  interest  —  young  enough 
to  be  self-conscious  and  vigilant  as  to  form, 
and  even,  I  am  afraid,  the  least  little  bit  in  doubt 
148 


MR.   DUCKIE  SUGGESTS  A  SCHEME     149 

as  to  his  father's  satisfactoriness  as  a  judge  of 
life.  He  would  grow  out  of  such  foibles,  I  think, 
for  he  had  a  good  face.  The  core  of  the  little 
comedy  lay  in  the  father's  desire  to  let  me,  a 
stranger,  into  the  secret  of  his  son's  success. 
He  stood  sufficiently  in  fear  of  the  boy  to  refrain 
from  talking  to  me  about  him,  or  indeed  talking 
to  me  at  all.  Young  Oxford,  he  knew  instinct- 
ively, would  not  like  that,  and  the  honest  fellow, 
who  was  clearly  of  a  sociable  communicative  cast, 
with  a  very  agreeable  vein  of  naive  snobbish- 
ness, had  to  content  himself  by  making  such 
remarks  to  his  son  as  carried  important  informa- 
tion with  them. 

His  great  chance,  however,  came  at  the  end  of 
the  meal,  at  which  the  boy  hitherto  had  been 
drinking  water.  "Will  you  have  a  glass  of  port, 
old  man?"  the  proud  father  asked.  Young 
Oxford  consented,  and  when  their  glasses  were 
filled,  the  father,  with  half  a  glance  towards  me 
to  see  that  I  was  attentive,  gave  the  toast,  "Well, 
old  man,  here's  to  another  First!" 

After  they  had  gone  I  was  alone  in  the  pew, 
and  as  the  other  customers'  needs  grew  fewer, 
Mr.  Duckie  paused  now  and  then  by  the  table 
and  talked  to  me.  He  had  been  there,  he  said, 
for  twenty-four  years. 

"Then  you  have  seen  many  changes?"  I  asked 
him. 

No,  he  said,  not  there.  Everything  was  the 
same.  It  was  their  strength  to  be  the  same. 
The  young  governor,  he'd  tried  some  new  notions, 


ISO  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

such  as  a  foreign  waiter  or  two,  but  it  was  a 
mistake.  Gentlemen  didn't  like  it.  Gentlemen 
liked  what  they'd  been  accustomed  to.  Foreign 
waiters  might  be  nippier  with  the  plates,  but 
gentlemen  didn't  like  to  have  to  teach  them 
English.  It  was  not  that  gentlemen  wanted  to 
talk  much ;  but  when  they  did  talk  they  wanted 
to  be  understood  and  replied  to  in  their  own 
language. 

Mr.  Duckie  was  now  head- waiter  and  proud  of 
his  post.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  satisfied  gener- 
ally with  his  life. 

He  said  that  he  was,  except  for  tired  feet;  and 
now  and  then,  he  added,  he  could  not  help 
wishing  that  some  one  would  invent  a  new  joint. 
Beef  and  mutton,  pork  and  veal,  he  said,  that's 
all  there  is.  When  he  first  came  there  they  had 
had  venison  once  a  week,  but  it  had  gone  right 
out  of  favour.  Gentlemen  never  inquired  for  it 
any  more. 

I  asked  him  how  he  kept  his  temper  when  cus- 
tomers were  unreasonable. 

"Oh,  that's  all  in  the  day's  work,"  he  said.  "I 
know  they  don't  mean  it.  It's  not  the  gentlemen 
who  are  snappish,  it's  their  empty  stomachs.  But 
there's  less  grumbling  here  than  in  any  other 
eating-house  in  London,"  he  said;  "and  I'll  tell 
you  for  why.  I  know  how  to  deal  with  them. 
All  my  men  have  instructions  to  take  the  order 
for  drinks  with  the  food,  and  execute  it  at  once. 
That's  the  way  to  soothe  them.  In  the  ordinary 
restaurant,  gentlemen  aren't  asked  what  they'll 


MR.   DUCKIE   SUGGESTS   A   SCHEME     151 

drink  until  they've  got  their  food,  and  even  then 
there's  a  delay.  It's  that  that  sours  them.  They 
can't  bear  waiting.  It's  just  the  same  with  little 
crying  babies.  Give  them  the  bottle  and  they're 
all  right.  Gentlemen  aren't  really  difficult  if  you 
think  a  little." 

"But  I  suppose,"  I  said,  "that  there  are  always 
a  few  who  can't  be  satisfied  any  way." 

"Of  course  there  are,"  said  Mr.  Duckie  (who, 
by  the  way,  sinks  familiarly  here  to  plain  John) ; 
"but,  Lor'  bless  you,  we  don't  mind  them. 
That's  their  way.  If  it  wasn't  —  if  they  really 
meant  all  they  said  —  they'd  go  somewhere  else. 
But  they  don't,  and  so  we  just  put  up  with  it. 
Why,  there's  gentlemen  so  much  in  love  with 
grumbling  that  they'd  call  for  a  toothpick  after 
eating  clear  soup.  It's  their  nature. 

"It  is  not  the  gentlemen,"  he  went  on,  "that 
break  a  waiter's  heart;  it's  the  kitchen.  That's 
where  our  trouble  is.  It's  cooks  that  ruin  eating- 
houses.  A  cook  who  has  a  grudge  against  a 
head-waiter  can  cost  his  governor  pounds  and 
pounds  a  day.  It's  all  in  his  hands;  he  can 
spoil  things,  or  he  can  keep  them  back  till  the 
customers  bang  out  in  a  fury.  Just  now  we've 
got  as  nice  a  lot  in  the  kitchen  as  you'd  wish  to 
meet  in  a  day's  march,  but  we  have  had  some 
fair  terrors.  Gentlemen  who  blame  waiters  for 
being  slow  don't  remember  that  the  food  has  got 
to  be  cooked  and  served  up,  and  that  the  waiter 
doesn't  do  either. 

"But    there;"    Mr.    Duckie    said,    "an  empty 


152  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

stomach  can't  remember  everything.  I  often 
think  this  would  be  a  better- tempered  and  happier 
world  if  we  ate  a  little  all  the  time  instead  of 
saving  up  our  appetites  for  real  meals.  But 
speaking  as  a  waiter,  I  can  see  it's  best  as  it  is." 

"Does  your  son  ever  come  and  see  you  here?" 
I  asked. 

"You  mean  the  comedian?"  he  said.  "Yes, 
now  and  again.  But  I  don't  encourage  him.  I 
don't  think  it's  a  good  thing  for  a  father  to  wait 
on  his  son.  Not  that  I  think  there's  any  shame 
in  it,  nor  that  I  feel  unwilling,  knowing  as  I  do 
what  genius  is.  But  it's  not  good  for  Herbert. 
It's  better  for  young  men  never  to  see  their  fathers 
at  a  disadvantage;  and  suppose  some  bad- 
tempered  gent  was  to  be  rude  to  me  while  he 
was  here,  and  I  of  course  not  able  to  answer  back 
or  do  anything  (because  of  course  waiters  mustn't) , 
that  wouldn't  be  right,  would  it  ?  —  not  a  good 
thing  for  a  son  to  see?" 

"But  he's  a  good  son,"  I  said. 

"Oh  yes,  he's  all  right.  But  he's  only  twenty- 
five,  and  he's  on  the  Halls,  and  he  makes  a  lot 
of  money.  It's  a  strange  life,  different  from 
anything  we're  accustomed  to.  They  turn  night 
into  day,  and  they  get  all  this  applause,  and 
everything's  got  to  be  funny,  and  you  don't  know 
where  you  are.  And  then,  of  course,  he's  got  his 
touring  to  look  after  —  a  week  here  and  a  week 
there,  all  over  the  country.  It  wouldn't  suit  me. 
I'm  all  for  regularity." 

"Do  you  ever  go  and  hear  him  sing?"  I  asked. 


MR.    DUCKEE   SUGGESTS   A   SCHEME    153 

"Not  much.  The  Halls  aren't  much  in  my 
line.  I  prefer  real  music.  The  Queen's  Hall  is 
my  mark.  There's  a  gentleman  who  comes  here 
who  gives  me  tickets  for  that,  and  when  I've  got 
a  free  evening  —  which  is  not  often,  for  I  wait  at 
City  dinners  and  such  things  most  nights  after  we 
close  here  —  off  I  go  to  a  symphony.  They're 
beautiful,  and  so  soothing.  We  had  Mr.  Henry 
J.  Wood  here  once,  and  I  saw  to  it  that  he  had  a 
good  lunch,  I  can  promise  you.  I  picked  out 
his  chop  myself.  But  the  man  I'd  like  to 
wait  on  is  Tchaikovsky.  Wouldn't  I  enjoy 
looking  after  him?  He'd  go  away  hungry  — 
I  don't  think." 

"Tchaikovsky?"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "The  composer  of  the 
Pathetic  Symphony.  It's  the  most  beautiful  thing 
I  ever  heard.  If  you  were  to  go  to  that  you'd 
understand  why,  with  the  exception  of  a  fatherly 
pride,  I  don't  much  care  about  Herbert's  turns." 

And  here  I  bade  him  good  afternoon,  and  took 
my  way  to  Lionel's  chambers,  murmuring  as  I 
went  — 

"I  want  to  know  a  butcher  paints." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

MR.  DABNEY  OF  THE  BALANCE  MEETS 
MORE  THAN  HIS  MATCH,  AND 
FINDS  A  RESCUER 

THE  breakfast  table,  which  is  the  Wynnes' 
Upper  House,  setting  the  seal,  or  other- 
wise, upon  schemes  that  have  been  comparatively 
idly  adumbrated  at  other  times  and  in  other  places, 
having  decided  that  Grandmamma,  who  had 
leanings  towards  literary  men,  would  like  to  meet 
an  author,  it  was  agreed  that  I  should  bring  Mr. 
Dabney  to  dinner  on  Saturday. 

"Can't  we  get  any  one  better  than  that?" 
Lionel  asked. 

"Mr.  Dabney  is  very  nice,"  said  Naomi. 

"I  daresay,"  said  Lionel;  "but  he's  not  known. 
What's  he  written?" 

"He's  an  editor,"  I  explained.  "His  paper  is 
The  Balance,  a  very  courageous  influential  organ. 
Frank  writes  for  it." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Lionel,  "but  Grandmamma  isn't 
going  to  get  excited  over  that.  What's  an 
editor?  The  world's  full  of  them.  They've  got 


MR.   DABNEY  MEETS  HIS  MATCH       155 

one  or  two  at  Ludlow,  I'll  bet.  What  Grand- 
mamma wants  to  meet  is  a  fellow  who  writes 
books,  novels.  Can't  you  get  hold  of  one  of 
them?  What  about  Jacobs?  I  shouldn't  mind 
meeting  him  myself." 

It  was  pointed  out  that  we  did  not  know  Mr. 
Jacobs. 

"Then  we  ought  to,"  said  Lionel.  "What's 
the  good  of  an  editor  anyway?  Every  paper 
seems  to  have  a  dozen  of  them.  How  would 
you  like  me  to  bring  Plum  Warner?  —  he's  written 
loads  of  books." 

Mr.  Dabney,  however,  remained  our  only  lion. 

When  the  evening  arrived,  it  looked  as  though 
Grandmamma  and  he  were  going  to  hit  it  off 
perfectly,  and  I  began  to  feel  quite  happy  about 
my  introduction  of  this  firebrand  into  the  house- 
hold. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  a  writer,"  Grandmamma 
began,  very  graciously.  "I  always  like  literary 
company.  Years  ago  I  met  both  Mr.  Dickens 
and  Mr.  Thackeray." 

I  saw  the  lid  of  Lionel's  left  eye  droop  as  he 
glanced  at  Naomi.  Mrs.  Wynne,  I  gathered,  was 
employing  a  favourite  opening. 

Mr.  Dabney  expressed  interest. 

"There  are  no  books  like  theirs  now,"  Grand- 
mamma continued.  "I  don't  know  what  kind  of 
books  you  write,  but  there  are  no  books  like  those 
of  Mr.  Dickens  and  Mr.  Thackeray." 

Mr.  Dabney  began  to  say  something. 

"Personally,"     Grandmamma    hurried    on,     "I 


156  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

prefer  those  of  Mr.  Dickens,  but  that  perhaps 
is  because  me  dear  fawther  used  to  read  them 
to  us  aloud.  He  was  a  beautiful  reader.  There 
is  no  reading  aloud  to-day,  Mr.  Dabney;  and,  I 
fear,  very  little  home  life." 

Here  Grandmamma  made  a  false  move,  and 
let  her  companion  in,  for  he  could  never  resist 
a  comparison  of  the  present  and  the  past,  to  the 
detriment  of  the  present. 

"No,"  he  said,  "you  are  quite  right."  And 
such  was  the  tension  that  Grandmamma's  remarks 
had  caused  that  the  whole  room  was  silent  for 
him.  "We  are  losing  our  hold  on  all  that  is 
most  precious.  Take  London  at  this  moment  — 
look  at  the  scores  and  scores  of  attractions  to 
induce  people  to  leave  home  in  the  evenings 
and  break  up  the  family  circle  —  restaurants, 
concert  rooms,  entertainments,  theatres.  Look 
at  the  music  halls.  Do  you  know  how  many 
music  halls  there  are  in  London  and  Greater 
London  at  this  moment?" 

"No,"  said  Grandmamma  sternly,  "I  have  no 
notion.  I  have  never  entered  one." 

Lionel  shot  a  glance  at  me  which  distinctly 
said,  in  his  own  deplorable  idiom,  "What  price 
Alf  Pinto?" 

Mr.  Dabney,  I  regret  to  say,  intercepted  the 
tail  of  it,  and  suddenly  realised  that  he  was 
straying  from  the  wiser  path  of  the  passive 
listener.  So  he  remarked,  "Of  course  not,"  and 
brought  the  conversation  back  to  Boz. 

"Mr.    Dickens,"   said   Grandmamma,   "did   me 


MR.  DABNEY  MEETS  HIS  MATCH      157 

the  honour  to  converse  with  me  in  Manchester 
in  the  sixties.  I  was  there  with  me  dear  husband 
on  business,  and  we  stayed  in  the  same  hotel  as 
Mr.  Dickens,  and  breakfasted  at  the  same  table. 
The  toast  was  not  good,  and  Mr.  Dickens,  I 
remember,  compared  it  in  his  inimitable  way  to 
sawdust.  It  was  a  perfect  simile.  He  was  very 
droll.  What  particularly  struck  me  about  him 
was  his  eye  —  so  bright  and  restless  —  and  his 
quick  ways.  He  seemed  all  nerves.  In  the 
course  of  our  conversation  I  told  him  I  had  met 
Mr.  Thackeray,  but  he  was  not  interested.  I 
remember  another  thing  he  said.  In  paying  his 
bill  he  gave  the  waiter  a  very  generous  tip,  which 
was  the  slang  word  with  which  me  dear  husband 
always  used  to  describe  a  douceur.  'There,' 
Mr.  Dickens  said,  as  he  gave  it  to  the  waiter, 

'that's  '  How  very  stupid!  I  have  forgotten 

what  he  said,  but  it  was  full  of  wit.  'There,' 
he  said Dear  me!" 

"Never  mind,  Grandmamma,"  said  Naomi, 
"you  will  think  of  it  presently." 

"But  it  was  so  droll  and  clever,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "Surely,  Alderley,  dear,  I  have  told  you 
of  it?" 

"Oh  yes,  mother,  many  times,"  said  Alderley; 
"but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  of  it  at  the 
moment.  Strange,  isn't  it,"  he  remarked  to  us 
all  at  large,  "how  often  the  loss  of  memory  in 
one  person  seems  to  infect  others  —  one  forgets 
and  all  forget.  We  had  a  case  in  Chambers  the 
other  day." 


158  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Their  father's  stories  having  no  particular  sting 
in  them,  his  children  abandoned  him  to  their 
mother,  who  listens  devotedly,  and  we  again  fell 
into  couples. 

But  it  was  useless  to  attempt  disregard  of  old 
Mrs.  Wynne.  There  was  a  feeling  in  the  air 
that  trouble  lay  ahead,  and  we  all  reserved  one 
ear  for  her. 

"And  Mr.  Thackeray?" — Mr.  Dabney  asked, 
with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  interest. 

"Mr.  Thackeray,"  said  Grandmamma,  "I  had 
met  in  London  some  years  before.  It  was  at 
a  conversazione  at  the  Royal  Society's.  Mr. 
Wynne  and  I  were  leaving  at  the  same  time 
as  the  great  man,  —  and  however  you  may  con- 
sider his  writings  he  was  great  physically,  —  and 
there  was  a  little  confusion  about  the  cab.  Mr. 
Thackeray  thought  it  was  his,  and  we  thought  it 
was  ours.  Me  dear  husband,  who  was  the  soul 
of  courtesy,  pressed  him  to  take  it;  but  Mr. 
Thackeray  gave  way,  with  the  most  charming 
bow  to  me.  It  was  raining.  A  very  tall  man 
with  a  broad  and  kindly  face  —  although  capable 
of  showing  satire  —  and  gold  spectacles.  He 
gave  me  a  charming  bow,  and  said,  'There  will 
be  another  one  for  me  directly.'  I  hope  there 
was,  for  it  was  raining.  Those  were,  however,  his 
exact  words:  'There  will  be  another  one  for  me 
directly. ' " 

Mr.  Dabney  expressed  himself  in  suitable  terms, 
and  cast  a  swift  glance  at  his  hostess  on  his  other 
side,  as  if  seeking  for  relief.  She  was  talking,  as 


MR.   DABNEY  MEETS  HIS  MATCH       159 

it  happened,  about  a  novel  of  the  day  in  which 
little  but  the  marital  relation  is  discussed,  and 
Mr.  Dabney,  on  being  drawn  into  the  discussion, 
remarked  sententiously,  "  The  trouble  with  marriage 
is  that  while  every  woman  is  at  heart  a  mother, 
every  man  is  at  heart  a  bachelor." 

"What  was  that?"  said  Grandmamma,  who 
is  not  really  deaf,  but  when  in  a  tight  place  likes 
to  gain  time  by  this  harmless  imposition.  "What 
did  Mr.  Dabney  say?"  she  repeated,  appealing  to 
Naomi. 

Poor  Mr.  Dabney  turned  scarlet.  To  a  mind  of 
almost  mischievous  fearlessness  is  allied  a  shrink- 
ing sensitiveness  and  distaste  for  prominence  of 
any  kind,  especially  among  people  whom  he  does 
not  know  well. 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing,  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Merely 
a  chance  remark." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  replied  Grandmamma 
severely,  thus  giving  away  her  little  ruse.  "There 
is  no  trouble  with  marriage.  It  is  very  distress- 
ing to  me  to  find  this  new  attitude  with  regard  to 
that  state.  When  I  was  a  girl  we  neither  talked 
about  incompatibility  and  temperament  and  all 
the  rest  of  it,  nor  thought  about  them.  We 
married.  I  have  had  to  give  up  my  library 
subscription  entirely  because  they  send  me 
nothing  nowadays  but  nauseous  novels  about 
husbands  and  wives  who  cannot  get  on  together. 
I  hope,"  she  added,  turning  swiftly  to  Mr.  Dabney, 
"that  those  are  not  the  kind  of  books  that  you 
write." 


160  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mr.  Dabney,  "I  don't  write  books 
at  all." 

"Not  write  books  at  all?"  said  Grandmamma. 
"I  understood  you  were  an  author." 

"No,  dear,"  said  Naomi,  "not  an  author.  Mr. 
Dabney  is  an  editor.  He  edits  a  very  interesting 
weekly  paper,  The  Balance.  He  stimulates  others 
to  write." 

"I  never  heard  of  the  paper,"  said  Grandmamma, 
who  is  too  old  to  have  any  pity. 

"I  must  show  it  to  you,"  said  Naomi.  "Frank 
writes  for  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  Grandmamma.  "But  I  am 
disappointed.  I  thought  that  Mr.  Dabney  wrote 
books.  The  papers  are  growing  steadily  worse, 
and  more  and  more  unfit  for  general  reading, 
especially  in  August.  I  hope,"  she  said,  turning 
to  Mr.  Dabney  again,  "you  don't  write  any  of 
those  terrible  letters  about  home  life  in  August?" 

Mr.  Dabney  said  that  he  didn't,  and  Grand- 
mamma began  to  soften  down.  "I  am  very  fond  of 
literary  society,"  she  said.  "It  is  one  of  my  great 
griefs  that  there  is  so  little  literary  society  in 
Ludlow.  You  are  too  young,  of  course,  Mr. 
Dabney,  but  I  am  sure  it  will  interest  you  to 
know  that  I  knew  personally  both  Mr.  Dickens  and 
Mr.  Thackeray." 

Here  a  shudder  ran  round  the  table,  and  Lionel 
practically  disappeared  into  his  plate.  I  stole  a 
glance  at  Mr.  Dabney's  face.  Drops  of  per- 
spiration were  beginning  to  break  out  on  his 
forehead. 


MR.   DABNEY  MEETS  HIS  MATCH       161 

"Mr.  Dickens,"  the  old  lady  continued  remorse- 
lessly and  all  unconscious  of  the  devastation  she 
was  causing,  even  at  the  sideboard,  usually  a 
stronghold  of  discreet  impassivity,  "Mr.  Dickens 
I  met  at  a  hotel  in  Manchester  in  the  sixties.  I 
was  there  with  me  dear  husband  on  business,  and 
we  breakfasted  at  the  same  table.  Mr.  Dickens 
was  all  nerves  and  fun.  The  toast  was  not  good, 
and  I  remember  he  compared  it  in  his  inimitable 
way  to  sawdust." 

Mr.  Dabney  ate  feverishly. 

"I  remember  also  that  he  made  a  capital  joke 
as  he  was  giving  the  waiter  a  tip,  as  me  dear 
husband  always  used  to  call  a  douceur.  'There,' 
he  said " 

Mr.  Dabney  twisted  a  silver  fork  into  the  shape 
of  a  hair-pin. 

It  was,  of  course,  Naomi  who  came  to  the 
rescue.  "Grandmamma,"  she  said,  "we  have  a 
great  surprise  for  you  —  the  first  dish  of  straw- 
berries." 

"So  early!"  said  the  old  lady.  "How  very 
extravagant  of  you,  but  how  very  pleasant."  She 
took  one,  and  ate  it  slowly,  while  Mr.  Dabney 
laid  the  ruined  fork  aside  and  assumed  the 
expression  of  a  reprieved  assassin. 

"'Doubtless,'"  Grandmamma  quoted,  "'God 
could  have  made  a  better  berry,  but  doubtless  He 
never  did.'  Do  you  know,"  she  asked  Mr.  Dabney, 
"who  said  that?  It  was  a  favourite  quotation  of 
me  fawther's." 

"Oh  yes,"   said   Mr.   Dabney,   who   had   been 


162  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

cutting  it  out  of  articles  every  June  for  years,  "it 
was  Bishop  Berkeley." 

The  situation  was  saved,  for  Grandmamma 
talked  exclusively  of  fruit  for  the  rest  of  the  meal. 
Ludlow,  it  seems,  has  some  very  beautiful  gardens, 
especially  Dr.  Sworder's,  which  is  famous  for  its 
figs.  A  southern  aspect. 

At  one  moment,  however,  we  all  went  cold 
again,  for  Lionel,  who  is  merciless,  suddenly 
asked  in  a  silence,  "Didn't  you  once  meet 
Thackeray,  Grandmamma?" 

Naomi,  however,  was  too  quick  for  him,  and 
before  the  old  lady  could  begin  she  had  signalled 
to  her  mother  to  lead  the  way  to  the  drawing-room. 

By  the  time  the  evening  ended,  Mr.  Dabney 
had  quite  recovered,  and  he  was  ready  enough 
on  the  way  home  to  laugh  at  his  adventure.  We 
talked  Dickens  long  into  the  night;  and  there  is 
no  better  subject.  Mr.  Dabney  said  one  very 
interesting  thing.  "What  I  always  wonder  about 
Dickens,"  he  said,  "is  how  on  earth  did  the  man 
correct  his  proofs?"  Because,  as  he  went  on  to 
point  out,  between  the  time  of  writing  and  the 
time  of  correcting  he  must  have  thought  of  so 
many  new  descriptive  touches,  so  many  new 
creatures  to  add,  so  many  new  and  adorable  fan- 
tastic comments  on  life.  How  could  he  deny 
himself  the  joy  of  putting  these  in?  —  for  there 
can  be  no  pleasure  like  that  of  creation. 

I  went  to  bed  still  laughing  —  but  I  should  not 
have  laughed  had  I  known  what  possible  danger 
for  me  lay  ahead,  the  product  of  that  comic 


MR.   DABNEY  MEETS  HIS  MATCH       163 

dinner  conversation.  Strange  at  what  light  and 
unconsidered  moments  the  strongest  mesh  of  the 
web  of  life  may  be  spinning !  We  never  know. 
Had  Mr  Dabney  not  needed  rescuing,  and  had 
Naomi  not  come  to  his  rescue.  , 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH,  AFTER  EXCEEDINGLY  TE- 
DIOUS TALK  ABOUT  THE  WISE 
EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS 
CASH,  AN  IDLER  IS  SET  TO  WORK 

RICHES,"  said  Miss  Gold,  "are  a  great 
responsibility.  I  want  to  be  altruistic, 
but  I  want  to  be  sure  —  or  as  sure  as  possible 
—  of  the  money  going  in  the  right  way." 

Trist,  who  had  come  down  to  Esher  with  me, 
smiled  cynically. 

"There  are  hospitals  and  so  forth,  I  know," 
Miss  Gold  continued,  "but  this  mere  writing  of 
cheques  seems  to  me  such  a  cowardly  thing.  I 
feel  that  one  ought  to  think  so  hard  before  every 
gift.  I  not  only  feel  that,  but  I  must  confess  to 
wanting  a  little  fun  for  my  money  too.  The 
solving  of  the  problem  how  to  spend  it  wisely 
is  indeed  my  chief  hobby." 

"A  very  fascinating  one,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "so  fascinating  that  when 
people  calling  here  say,  'Oh,  Miss  Gold,  how 
kind  and  charitable  you  are!'  I  blush,  because 

164 


EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS  CASH     165 

I  know  that  although  it  may  look  like  kindness 
and  charity  it  is  really  nothing  whatever  but 
self-indulgence." 

"My  dear  Miss  Gold,"  said  Trist,  "my  dear 
Miss  Gold,  may  I  implore  you  not  to  begin  that. 
Between  us  three,  let  it  be  understood  from  the  out- 
set that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  unselfishness." 

She  laughed.  "Very  well,"  she  said,  "but, 
none  the  less,  the  thought  is  with  me  continually. 
I  take  it  for  granted  one  minute,  and  the  next 
I  am  up  in  arms  against  it." 

"If  you  are  at  all  troubled  about  small  bene- 
factions," I  said,  "I  must  bring  Miss  Wynne  to 
see  you.  She  could  help  in  the  little  ways  so  very 
sensibly." 

"I  should  love  to  see  her,"  said  Miss  Gold. 
"Every  one  whom  one  can  trust  to  do  a  few  little 
things  is  so  valuable;  but  it  is  the  large  sums 
that  are  the  hardest  nuts  to  crack.  I  have  so 
much,  you  know,  and  I  can  spend  so  little.  This 
house  costs  practically  nothing;  I  want  no 
clothes;  the  doctor  is  almost  my  heaviest 
expense,  and  really  I  could  do  without  him, 
because  whether  he  comes  or  whether  he  doesn't 
this  thing  has  got  to  go  on  getting  worse.  That 
is  fixed." 

My  poor  Agnes. 

"I  have  had  the  most  fantastic  ideas,"  she 
hurried  on.  "I'll  tell  you  of  one  of  them. 
You  know  Burns's  lines  about  resisting  tempta- 
tion? They're  in  that  green  book  on  the  second 
shelf,  there;  the  fourth  from  the  end.  It  is 


166  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Cunningham's  edition,  and  came  from  your  shop. 
The  book-mark  is  in  the  place." 

I  found  them. 

"Read  them  aloud,"  Miss  Gold  commanded. 

I  did  so  — 

"Then  gently  scan  your  brother  Man, 

Still  gentlier  sister  Woman; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think  I  did? 
I  wrote  to  a  thousand  clergymen,  chosen  at 
random  from  the  directory,  and  asked  if  I  might 
be  allowed  to  defray  the  cost  of  having  these 
lines  suitably  illuminated  in  gold  in  some  part 
of  their  church.  Many  did  not  answer  at  all; 
others  refused  straightforwardly  on  their  own 
responsibility;  many  said  that  they  themselves 
would  like  to  give  permission,  but  their  bishops 
would  not  approve.  One  only  asked  me  to  do 
it,  and  I  did  it;  but  I  have  a  notion,  from  the 
report  of  a  spy  that  I  sent  down,  that  a  hatchment 
has  since  been  hung  over  it." 


EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS  CASH     167 

"You  might,"  said  Trist,  "have  offered  to 
strike  a  bargain  with  them.  In  place,  for 
example,  of  the  tenth  commandment,  which  was 
devised  for  the  well-being  of  an  Eastern  tribe  hi 
camp,  and  has  no  bearing  whatever  at  the  present 
day  in  a  civilisation  that  demands  Sunday  labour 
of  most  kinds,  from  cooking  to  shunting,  and  is 
broken  perhaps  most  flagrantly  by  the  clergymen 
who  enunciate  it  at  so  much  a  year  (yes,  and  call 
it  work  too,  holding  their  poor  foreheads  as  they 
tell  you  of  their  weary  life)  — you  might  have 
offered  Burns's  lines  in  place  of  that.  Burns  at 
any  rate  touches  real  life,  whereas  the  presence 
of  that  law  on  the  walls  of  the  chancel  has 
merely  an  archaeological  value." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Gold,  "but  we  must  not  look 
for  logic." 

"Nor,"  said  Trist,  "hi  a  social  society  like  the 
Church  for  courage." 

"I  don't  blame  the  clergymen,"  I  said.  "They 
have  to  live.  Better,  they  very  properly  thought, 
go  on  with  elemental  condemnations  than  let 
in  the  thin  end  of  such  a  dangerous  wedge  as 
imaginative  understanding." 

"The  New  Testament,"  said  Trist,  "will  never 
catch  up  with  the  Old  hi  this  country.  The  Old 
is  certainly  the  best  from  the  point  of  view  of  men 
who  have  to  bring  up  families.  Trade  unionism 
must  be  very  wary,  and  look  ahead." 

"Why  didn't  you  go  on  to  offer  the  verses  to 
the  Nonconformists?"  I  asked. 

"I  was  discouraged,"  she  said.    "That  is  one 


i68  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

of  the  temptations  to  which  I  most  easily  fall  a 
prey  —  discouragement.  I  felt  I  could  not  reopen 
the  project." 

"You  might  have  given  it  a  turn,"  I  said. 
"For  example,  in  my  Chinese  book  it  is  written 
of  Wang  Kung-i,  of  the  seventh  century  A.D.,  that 
on  being  asked  by  the  Emperor  Kao  Tsung  to 
explain  the  secret  of  the  harmony  in  which  three 
generations  of  his  family  had  lived,  he  wrote 
the  single  word  'Forbearance'  many  times.  You 
might  have  offered  them  that  anecdote,  and 
entitled  it  'A  Lesson  from  a  Heathen  Land,' 
and  therefore,  even  if  apposite,  negligible  here. 
Every  one,  then,  would  be  pleased." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Gold,  "money  is  really 
the  last  instrument  with  which  benevolence, 
charity,  altruism,  whatever  you  call  it,  works; 
but  most  of  us,  being  in  a  hurry,  put  it  first. 
The  first  really  is  thought.  I  will  give  you  an 
example  of  what  I  call  the  truest  thought  for  others, 
and  one  which  to  my  mind,  if  not  to  the  Rontgen- 
rayed  eye  of  a  cynical  bachelor,  really  involves 
self-sacrifice.  I  have  a  friend  who  spends  a 
great  deal  of  her  time  —  how  do  you  think  ?  In 
writing  letters  to  prisoners  in  the  gaols.  They 
are  pious  letters,  full  of  appeals  to  the  better 
nature  and  reminders  of  Christ's  loving-kindness 
and  the  chance  that  remains  to  every  one.  They 
must,  to  a  large  extent,  merely  reproduce  the 
ordinary  solace  that  is  offered  by  the  chaplains 
and  visitors;  but  this  lady  writes  them  herself, 
very  carefully  and  legibly,  and  she  employs 


EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS  CASH     169 

several  of  her  nieces  to  paint  flowers  on  the  top 
of  each  piece  of  note-paper.  She  is  a  wealthy 
and  an  intellectual  woman,  and  might  be  much 
more  congenially  employed:  but  she  does  this 
because  she  wants  to  do  something  to  alleviate 
the  lot  of  the  outcast.  It  seems  to  me  a  very 
beautiful  deed." 

"How  I  envy  her!"  I  said. 

"Envy?" 

"Yes,  her  singleness  of  mind.  I  could  not  do 
it;  not  only  because  I  should  not  dare  to  offer 
such  solace,  but  also  because  my  sympathy  would 
be  too  much  with  them.  I  should  feel,  in  the  case 
of  so  many,  that  their  imprisonment  was  the  real 
offence  rather  than  the  so-called  crime  that  took 
them  there,  and  that  would  stay  my  hand.  The 
letter  that  I  should  write  would  be  a  letter  that 
would  never  pass  the  governor's  office.  Take,  for 
example,  a  starving  man  who  stole  bread,  and  is 
in  prison  for  that.  It  would  be  too  cruel  a 
mockery  to  comfort  him  with  evangelical  maxims. 
Hunger  comes  before  conduct  and  far  before 
religion.  Another  man  might  be  there  for  debt, 
which  is  quite  as  often  the  result  of  accident  as 
turpitude.  Another  might  have  merely  killed  the 
middle-aged  seducer  of  a  child  of  tender  years. 
It  is  too  difficult.  I  am  too  uncertain." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Gold.  "I  am  a  little  like 
that  too;  we  are  too  complex  for  charity,  you 
and  I.  In  all  probability  we  are  merely  meddling 
busy-bodies,  groping  towards  what  we  hope  is 
light,  but  doing  harm  by  the  way." 


170  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"I  agree  with  you  entirely,"  said  Trist,  who 
had  been  silent  for  some  time.  "My  suspicion  is 
that  no  one  can  do  anything  for  any  one;  and 
my  belief  is  that  certain  persons  with  soft  hearts 
are  doomed  to  ruin  where  they  would  assist. 
Most  of  the  charitable  are  wreckers  —  cer- 
tainly the  cheque-writers  are,  and  certainly  I 
am.  I  have  proved  it  again  and  again;  but  I 
shall  probably  go  on,  since  resistance  is  so 
difficult  and  one  is  usually  so  much  wiser  than 
one's  deeds.  I  will  give  you  an  example.  I 
once  did  such  an  apparently  harmless  thing  as 
to  give  a  tailor's  assistant  a  season  ticket  for 
Earl's  Court.  It  admitted  one  only  and  he  could 
not  afford  a  shilling  a  night  for  his  wife;  he 
went  every  night  alone;  their  home  life  was 
interrupted  and  then  destroyed,  and  they  have 
never  been  happy  since.  That,  of  course,  was  an 
error  on  my  part.  Had  I  thought  a  little  longer 
I  should  have  realised  that  the  ticket  was  putting 
him,  as  the  saying  is,  above  himself,  and  have 
held  my  hand. 

"That  is  one  example.  I  could  give  you 
many  others,"  Trist  continued,  "all  of  which  con- 
vince me  that  I  am  a  danger  to  society  and 
ought  to  be  locked  up  for  giving  money  away  as 
surely  as  any  of  your  kind  friend's  prisoners  are 
locked  up  for  abstracting  it." 

"This  is  very  terrible,"  said  Miss  Gold. 

"Well,  I  believe  it  to  be  true  of  myself,"  Trist 
said;  "others  may  have  better  fortune;  but  for 
the  most  part  the  feckless  should  be  left  alone. 


EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS  CASH     171 

It  sounds  brutal,  but  after  my  experience  you 
will  acquit  me  of  wishing  to  speak  brutally.  Eng- 
land, as  I  said  before,  is  an  Old  Testament  country, 
and  had  better  be  left  to  it.  Christianity  meddles." 

"That  means,"  I  said,  "not  the  cessation  of 
charity  but  the  materialisation  of  it.  Manna  and 
quails  once  more.  And  a  very  good  thing  too." 

"Certainly,"  said  Miss  Gold. 

"Those  stanzas  of  yours,"  I  went  on,  "might 
have  a  serious  undermining  influence  on  the 
single-minded.  Is  it  worth  while  to  interfere 
with  such  an  accepted  beatitude  as  'Blessed  are 
the  untempted,  for  they  shall  be  accounted  the 
best  men?'" 

"Yes,"  said  Trist,  "but  that  expresses  only 
part  of  the  case.  The  real  wording  should  be, 
'Blessed  are  those  who  escape  the  prohibited 
temptations,  for  they  shall  be  reputed  the  best 
men.'  Avarice,  for  example,  which  the  author  of 
the  beatitudes  loathed  with  all  his  magnificent 
loathing,  has  become  a  very  popular  and  highly 
esteemed  temptation.  A  man  indeed  practically 
writes  himself  down  both  fool  and  failure  if  he 
does  not  succumb  to  it. 

"Meekness  also  has  gone  out,  although  my 
own  private  opinion  is  that  when  Christ  extolled 
the  meek  and  promised  them  their  inheritance, 
he  was  speaking  ironically  (as  he  often  must 
have  been),  and  the  earth  they  were  to  inherit 
was  a  piece  six  feet  by  two." 

Miss  Gold  liked  that.  "You  should  write  a 
commentary,"  she  said.  "We  want  every  point 


172  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

of  view  to  be  expressed,  whether  it's  right  or 
wrong;  and  I  imagine,"  she  added,  "that  no 
honest  point  of  view  can  possibly  be  wholly  wrong." 
"As  to  temptation,"  I  said,  "take  my  own 
case.  In  the  ordinary  usage  of  the  word,  I  am  from 
temptation  almost  wholly  free.  I  have  the  good 
or  ill  fortune  to  possess  a  mind  that  can  occupy 
itself  happily  almost  without  a  break,  like  a  bee 
in  that  herbaceous  border  out  there.  Vice  does 
not  beckon  me  with  any  alluring  finger;  I  am  ill 
at  once  if  I  over-eat;  I  am  ill  the  next  day  if  I 
drink  too  much;  and  I  care  more  for  health  than 
for  the  immediate  pleasure  of  such  excesses.  I 
have  a  sufficient  income;  I  do  not  desire  more. 
I  have  no  tendency  to  be  a  scandal-monger.  The 
result  is,  that  I  am  accounted  a  good  man;  the 
nice  gentleman  over  Bemerton's,  they  probably 
call  me  in  the  neighbourhood;  very  likely  mothers 
point  me  out  as  a  model.  But  I  am  not  deceived. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  the  certificate  is  based 
not  as  it  should  be  on  what  I  do  but  on  what  I 
do  not  do.  It  is  a  negative  honour  that  I  enjoy 
or  endure.  Every  time  a  wretched,  besotted 
tippler  tramples  down  the  craving  to  have  another 
drink,  and  thus  saves  twopence  for  his  wife,  he 
is  a  better  man  than  I,  who  have  no  craving  to 
conquer  —  except  the  craving  (if  I  can  apply  to 
it  so  strong  a  word)  not  to  have  any  craving; 
and  that  I  submit  to.  Do  you  remember,  Trist, 
that  we  were  discussing  this  very  question  some 
years  ago  at  Bentley's,  and  I  claimed  to  have  no 
temptations,  when  a  shrewd  being  who  knew  me 


EXPENDITURE  OF  SUPERFLUOUS   CASH    173 

well  remarked,  'Oh  yes,  you  have,  Falconer;  your 
temptation  is  to  be  tolerant;  you  can  find  little 
twopenny-halfpenny  faults  with  things,  but  you 
can't  condemn.'  Do  you  remember  that?  It  was 
true  then,  and  it  is  even  more  true  now,  when  I  am 
many  years  older.  If  a  man  can't  condemn  at 
twenty-five,  he  certainly  will  not  at  fifty,  when 
he  knows  so  much  more  of  life  and  more  than 
ever  is  conscious  of  the  other  side.  Angels  have 
their  advocate  as  well  as  the  devil,  and  both 
perhaps  are  unfair.  The  superficial  may  call 
me  good,  but  before  God  I  am  only  amiable." 

"And  yet,"  said  Trist,  "there  was  a  fallacy  hi 
the  criticism,  for  to  be  tolerant  or  intolerant  is  not  a 
matter  of  will.  When  the  drunkard  tightens  his 
fist  on  his  twopence,  and  walks  resolutely  away 
from  the  public-house,  he  is  deliberately  resisting 
temptation  at  the  command  of  his  own  will. 
Similarly,  when  a  reviewer  refrains  from  saying 
too  hard  a  thing,  for  justice,  about  a  book  by  a 
man  whom  he  dislikes,  or  too  kind  a  thing,  for 
justice,  about  a  book  by  a  man  whom  he  likes, 
he  is  deliberately  resisting  temptation  at  the 
command  of  his  own  will.  But  it  is  not  a 
matter  of  will  with  you  to  be  tolerant.  It  is 
temperament.  And  you  are  tolerant  because  you 
never  made  up  your  mind  as  to  right  and 
wrong." 

"And  never  shall,"  I  said.  "As  a  child  I  had 
no  doubts;  but  now?  Take,  for  instance,  telling 
the  truth.  I  was  brought  up  to  believe  that  one 
should  do  that,  and  I  knew  a  lie  a  mile  off. 


174  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

But  now  I  see  that  mendacity,  or  at  any  rate 
the  suppression  of  one's  real  feelings  and  opinions, 
is  the  cement  that  binds  society  together." 

"And  yet  truth,"  said  Miss  Gold,  "is  the  only 
really  interesting  thing.  But  I  have  had  enough 
ethics  for  one  day,  particularly  as  everything  that 
Mr.  Trist  says  is  directed  against  the  usefulness 
of  the  only  hobby  I  possess.  Tell  me,  Mr. 
Trist,"  she  went  on,  "would  you  think  this  a 
dangerous  scheme? — to  hang  one  good  picture, 
not  an  original,  of  course,  but  a  really  fine 
reproduction,  in  every  common  room  of  every 
workhouse  in  England." 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  even  with  a  microscope 
could  I  find  peril  in  that." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  I  give  you  carte  blanche, 
will  you  do  that  for  me  and  so  get  back  a  little 
belief  as  to  your  usefulness?  Will  you  find  the 
pictures  and  arrange  for  their  framing?  I  will 
communicate  with  the  Guardians,  because  I  know 
you  could  never  bring  yourself  to  do  that.  But 
will  you  help  me  over  the  pictures?" 

And  Trist  said  he  would. 

"I  shall  have  a  little  work  for  you  very  soon, 
Kent,"  Miss  Gold  said  to  me  as  we  left  "It  is 
time  you  did  something." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WE  ASSIST  AT  A  FUNCTION  IN  THE 
MODERN  SMITHFIELD,  BUT  NOT 
QUITE  TO  THE  DEATH 

come     at    once.     Drusilla     has     been 
arrested." 

So  ran  the  frenzied  pencil  note  in  Naomi's 
hand,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  new  novel,  which  was 
brought  to  me  one  morning  by  the  boot  and  knife 
boy  at  Queen  Anne's  Gate. 

I  went  immediately,  accompanied  by  the  boy, 
who  evidently  knew  what  was  wrong. 

"Miss  Drusilla  and  the  other  Sufferagettes,"  he 
said,  "have  been  having  another  turn-up  with  the 
Prime  Minister.  They  keep  the  pot  boiling,  don't 
they,  sir?" 

"Do  you  think  women  ought  to  have  the  vote?" 
I  asked  him. 

"My  mother  says,"  he  replied,  "that  all  the 
clever  women  have  it  already." 

"Has  she  got  it?"  I  asked. 

He  grinned.  "I  should  rather  say  she  had," 
he  answered. 

»75 


176  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Drusilla's  mother  was  in  a  state  of  profound 
dejection  and  semi-collapse.  "I  don't  know  -what 
Alderley  will  say,"  was  the  burden  of  her  lament. 

I  told  her  it  was  very  fortunate  he  was  away. 
He  would  have  time  to  think  it  over  and  take  a 
kindly  view. 

"A  daughter  of  mine  in  prison,"  said  my  sister. 
"The  shame  of  it." 

"Oh  no,"  I  said,  "not  at  all.  There  is  no 
shame  in  political  offence.  The  fight  for  freedom, 
you  know.  Think  of  Joan  of  Arc.  Think  of  — 
of  —  Jael  and  Sisera.  Some  one  must  always 
suffer  before  justice  is  done." 

This  cheered  the  poor  mother  a  little,  but  all 
my  good  efforts  were  undone  by  Lionel,  who 
rushed  in  at  this  moment,  pale  with  fury.  Neither 
Naomi  nor  I  could  check  his  ravings  for  some 
minutes,  and  his  mother  accepted  them  as  a  true 
picture  of  the  case.  Naturally.  Was  he  not  her 
son,  while  I  was  only  her  step-brother  twice  his 
age? 

Lionel,  I  need  hardly  say,  disregarded  the 
seriousness  of  the  cause  of  female  enfranchise- 
ment. His  principal  concern  was  the  name  of 
Wynne,  and  L.  Wynne  in  particular,  and  the 
effect  of  Drusilla's  martyrdom  upon  it.  How 
could  he  walk  to  the  wicket,  in  the  Middlesex 
and  Surrey  match  to-morrow,  with  the  knowledge 
of  this  outrage  not  only  in  his  own  mind  but  only 
too  evidently  in  that  of  every  spectator  at  the 
Oval?  How  could  he  do  himself  justice  as  a 
bat  under  such  a  humiliation?  And  think  of 


IN  THE  MODERN  SMITHFIELD          177 

the  report  the  next  day  — "  Wynne,  the  brother 
of  the  notorious  Suffragette,  secured  a  well- 
merited  duck,"  or,  "To  be  'caught  out'  seems 
just  now  to  run  in  the  Wynne  family."  Lionel's 
fancy  played  with  the  theme  like  a  comic 
journalist  in  an  evening  paper.  He  covered 
himself  with  gratuitous  ridicule. 

"My  dear  boy,"  I  said  at  last,  "how  extra- 
ordinarily out  of  date  you  are.  You  are  making 
two  of  the  least  pardonable  mistakes  of  your  age 
—  you  are  taking  something  seriously  and  you  are 
disregarding  the  benefits  of  advertisement." 

He  turned  on  me  like  a  tiger.  "Oh  yes,"  he 
said,  "you  never  find  fault  with  anything.  You 
just  smile  and  enjoy  it." 

"I  can't  find  much  fault  with  Drusilla,"  I  said 
humbly,  "because  she  is  sincere.  There  is  no 
harm  in  wanting  to  be  considered  more  important 
than  you  are:  it  is  not  wrong  to  want  to  vote. 
Personally  I  hope  I  shall  never  vote  again,  but 
that  is  not  virtue  in  me  —  it  is  deplorable,  un- 
patriotic weakness.  Drusilla  takes  a  passionate 
interest  in  public  affairs  and  wants  to  be  allowed 
to  participate  in  them,  and  considers  it  an 
injustice  that  she  should  not  be  allowed  to 
because  she  is  a  woman  and  not  a  man.  In 
her  excitement  for  this  cause  she  and  her 
friends  seem  to  have  gone  a  little  too  far  and 
have  come  into  collision  with  a  law  and  the 
police.  That  is  all.  There  is  no  disgrace;  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  a  merit  in  any  one  to-day  to 
be  ready  to  suffer  for  any  cause." 

N 


178  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Seeing  that  I  might  as  well  be  talking  to  a 
pillar  box,  I  stopped  there,  although  it  also 
occurred  to  me  to  say  that  I  could  imagine  an 
intelligent  Japanese  looking  with  more  admira- 
tion upon  sisters  who  wanted  votes  than  brothers 
who  struck  and  pursued  a  ball  all  day. 

I  did,  however,  add,  "Instead  of  ranting  about 
your  own  reputation  as  a  cricketer,  you  ought  to 
be  hurrying  as  fast  as  you  can  to  the  police  court, 
to  bail  her  out  —  if  she  will  let  you,  which  I  doubt 
—  and  be  rather  proud  to  think  that  you  have  so 
determined  and  plucky  a  sister.  I  will  come  with 
you  if  you  like." 

Lionel,  I  regret  to  say,  replied  briefly  that  he 
would  be  damned  if  he  did  anything  of  the  kind, 
and  so  I  went  alone,  as  Naomi  could  not  leave 
her  mother. 

What  nice  people  the  police  are!  To  the 
well-to-do  and  law-abiding  they  have  a  quiet, 
gentle,  paternal  way  that  soothes  and  reassures. 
They  write  things  in  books  like  recording  angels. 
They  hold  out  hope. 

"Miss  Drusilla  Wynne?  Oh  yes,"  said  the 
officer  in  charge.  "Taken  into  custody  for  creat- 
ing a  disturbance  in  Downing  Street  with  other 
females.  The  magistrate  will  hear  the  case  in 
about  half  an  hour.  A  special  sitting." 

Yes,  he  added,  I  might  see  her;  but  they 
were  all  very  excited,  and  had  been  singing  their 
war-song. 

A  policeman  led  me  to  Drusilla' s  cell  and 
told  me  the  story  on  the  way.  It  seemed  that 


IN  THE  MODERN   SMITHFIELD         179 

the  Prime  Minister  had  made  an  announcement 
unpalatable  to  the  sisterhood,  whose  knife,  the 
officer  added,  had  been  in  him  for  some  time,  and 
certain  picked  heroines  among  them  had  paid  him 
a  call  of  protest. 

"No  harm  in  that,"  said  A-27,  "but  they 
wouldn't  go  away  when  told,  and  created  a  dis- 
turbance, so  we  had  to  bring  them  to  the  station. 
Very  voilent  they  were,  too,  some  of  them;  but 
not  your  young  lady,  I  hope.  Let  me  see,  what 
did  you  say  her  name  was?" 

I  told  him. 

"Oh  yes.  Wynne,"  he  said  (and  my  thoughts 
flew  instantly  to  poor  Wragg  in  Arnold's  preface), 
"Wynne.  No,  she  was  all  right  —  went  like  a 
lamb.  In  point  of  fact,  I  apprehended  her  myself. 
A  pretty  little  piece  hi  green  and  terra-cotta. 
Seemed  to  me  she  was  doing  what  she  was  told, 
more  than  what  she  wanted  to." 

Poor  Drusilla  —  if  she  could  have  heard  that! 
Nothing  so  enrages  as  truth. 

I  was  allowed  to  talk  to  her  in  the  presence 
of  the  constable,  who,  with  his  helmet  off,  had 
quite  the  air  of  a  man  and  a  brother  —  a  far  more 
sympathetic  brother  than  Lionel,  indeed. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  I  can't  pay 
the  fine.  None  of  the  others  will,  and  I'm  not 
going  to  desert  them." 

"Does  that  mean  Holloway?"  I  asked  the 
policeman. 

"That's  right,"  he  said:  "Holloway." 

"In  Black  Maria?"  I  asked. 


i8o  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"That's  right:  Black  Maria,"  he  said. 

"How  long  do  you  think  it  will  be?"  I  asked. 

"A  week  or  ten  days  for  the  first  offenders," 
he  said;  "a  fortnight  for  the  old  parliamentary 
hands." 

I  told  Drusilla  about  her  mother;  but  it  did 
not  move  her.  "It  is  mother's  battle  we  are 
fighting  as  well  as  our  own,"  she  replied. 
"Women  should  hang  together." 

"Not  hang,"  I  said:   "it's  not  as  bad  as  that." 

A-27  laughed,  and  Drusilla  turned  on  him 
furiously. 

"Why  should  policemen  be  men?"  she  cried. 
"That's  another  injustice.  If  women  have  to  be 
arrested,  they  ought  to  be  arrested  by  their  own 
sex." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  miss,"  said  the  con- 
stable. "And  so  would  all  my  mates,  very 
heartily.  Yes,  and  all  our  missuses  too.  It's  no 
bean-feast  taking  a  woman  to  the  station,  I  can 
tell  you.  The  police  have  their  feelings  as  well 
as  any  one  else,  and  they  never  feel  so  little  like 
men  as  they  do  when  they're  apprehending  a 
female  offender.  Now  you,  miss,  as  I  was  telling 
this  gentleman  here,  came  along  quiet  and  peace- 
able; but  do  you  think  I  was  proud  of  having 
my  hand  on  you?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  could  have 
sunk  into  the  earth  for  shame.  Votes  for  women 
I  don't  believe  in,  and  never  shall;  but  police- 
women for  women  I  would  plump  for." 

At  this  moment  a  messenger  came  to  say  that 
the  magistrate  was  ready,  and  I  had  to  leave 


IN  THE  MODERN   SMITHFIELD         181 

Drusilla  and  enter  the  court.  The  hearing  took 
only  a  short  time.  There  were  several  offenders, 
some  of  whom  had  been  in  similar  meltes  before. 
They  all  refused  to  pay  the  fine  and  received  vary- 
ing sentences,  as  A- 2  7  had  foretold. 

Drusilla,  however,  was  discharged  with  a  caution, 
a  result  due  partly  to  her  pacific  behaviour  with 
her  constable,  and  partly,  I  have  no  doubt,  to  her 
father's  standing  at  the  Bar;  for  although  there 
may  not  be  (as  some  aver)  one  law  for  the  rich 
and  one  for  the  poor,  there  is  certainly  one  law 
for  a  colleague  and  one  for  a  stranger,  and  so 
there  always  will  be.  As  Trist  says,  the  human 
organism  presents  few  attractions  as  a  resting- 
place  to  the  bacillus  of  impartiality. 

In  discharging  her  (to  her  very  obvious  distress), 
the  magistrate  made  some  kind  if  antiquated 
remarks.  He  pointed  out  that  there  were  other 
rights  to  be  considered  as  well  as  the  right  to 
vote.  There  were,  for  example,  the  parents' 
right  to  be  free  from  anxiety  as  to  what  their 
daughters  were  doing;  the  right  to  be  exempted 
from  such  annoyance  and  grief  as  the  imprison- 
ment of  their  daughters  would  bring;  and  so 
forth.  He  meant  well,  but  Drusilla  was  white 
with  disagreement  and  indignation. 

"If  every  one  thought  about  others  like  that," 
she  said,  on  the  way  home,  "there  would  be  no 
progress  whatever.  Progress  is  based  on  dis- 
regard of  old-fashioned  feelings."  (Where  did 
she  get  that?) 

"True  enough,"  I  agreed.     "But  progress  also 


182  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

comes  from  independence.  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  all  those  other  brave  ladies  who  have  refused 
to  pay  their  fines,  and  have  gone  to  Holloway, 
have  their  own  homes  and  incomes.  They  are 
in  a  position  to  defy  the  law.  But  where  is 
your  income?  where  is  your  home?" 

This  hit  Drusilla  rather  hard.  "If  it  came 
to  that,"  she  said,  "I  would  leave  home  at  once 
and  earn  my  own  living." 

"But  you  have  not  done  so,"  I  said,  "and  one 
cannot  have  it  both  ways.  One  cannot  enjoy 
both  the  sheltered  advantages  of  the  dependent 
and  the  fierce  joys  of  the  independent.  You 
have  been  a  gambler  this  morning.  You  were 
playing  a  game  which  might  cost  you  money  you 
did  not  possess  and  would  have  to  be  paid  by  some 
one  who  disapproved  of  the  whole  thing." 

"But  I  was  prepared  to  go  to  prison,"  said 
Drusilla. 

"Quite  true,"  I  said.  "But  what  about  your 
time  there?  It  does  not  belong  to  you.  Your 
father  paid  for  you  to  be  at  the  Slade.  No,"  I 
said,  "you  are  a  dependent  and  must  behave 
accordingly.  But  when  you  earn  your  own 
living,  there  is  nothing  you  cannot  do.  If  you 
still  want  the  vote,  and  there  is  no  other  way  of 
getting  it  but  by  encamping  on  the  Prime  Min- 
ister's doorstep,  why,  you  must  encamp  there 
and  I  will  help  you.  But  so  long  as  you  are 
taking  your  father's  money,  and  living  under  his 
roof,  I  fancy  you  must  behave." 

And  so  I  restored  her  to  her  mother. 


IN  THE  MODERN  SMITHFIELD         183 

My  next  step  was  to  return  swiftly  to  the 
police  court  to  try  a  little  corruption  and  bribery; 
but  I  am  not  good  at  this,  and  my  suggestion 
that  Wing  was  the  correct  spelling  of  Brasilia's 
surname  (I  had  not  only  her  father's  comfort  but 
her  grandmother's  hi  mind)  failed  dismally.  In 
this  world,  although  deceptions  are  welcomed 
everywhere,  it  is  only  on  certain  conditions,  one 
of  which  is  that  they  must  be  carried  through 
with  a  high  hand.  I  did  not  comply  with  this 
rule;  and  when  I  began  to  fumble  for  a  sove- 
reign, the  inspector's  cold  eye  paralysed  my  fingers. 
So  Wynne  it  remained  —  Drusilla  Wynne,  aged 
twenty-two. 

Alderley,  as  it  happened,  said  nothing,  but  he 
acted  promptly.  He  told  Drusilla  very  kindly 
but  decisively  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  go 
to  the  Slade  any  more.  He  would  find  her 
private  instruction,  he  said,  or  perhaps  she  might 
join  a  class  hi  a  studio,  but  he  wanted  the  Slade 
lessons  to  cease.  This  was  very  hard,  and  I 
sympathised  with  her;  but,  as  I  pointed  out,  and 
I  am  sure  Naomi  did  too,  her  father  had  the  right 
to  dictate,  and  one  cannot  expect  to  be  a  revolu- 
tionary on  plum  cake,  so  to  speak. 

So  Drusilla  fared  to  Gower  Street  no  more; 
and  as  for  the  little  bearded  men  with  the  blue 
shirts,  they  gradually  disappeared  and  no  doubt 
found  other  comrades,  as  artists  and  socialists 
quickly  do. 

The  chief  cause  of  anxiety  at  Queen  Anne's 
Gate  that  then  remained  was  old  Mrs.  Wynne. 


184  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Could  the  news  be  kept  from  her?  We  wondered 
for  a  few  days,  and  then  at  last  her  daughter-in- 
law  knew  the  worst,  for  a  letter  from  Ludlow 
arrived  with  reference  to  the  matter. 

"How  strange,"  the  old  lady  wrote,  "that  there 
should  be  two  girls  of  the  same  age  named 
Drusilla  Wynne,  for  Drusilla  is  by  no  means  a 
common  name,  and  there  has  been  a  Drusilla 
Wynne  in  our  family  for  generations.  My  eye 
caught  it  in  a  report  of  the  deplorable  incident 
proceeding  from  this  new  outcry.  Another  strange 
thing  is  that  this  other  Drusilla  Wynne  is  de- 
scribed as  the  daughter  of  a  well-known  barrister; 
but  life  is  full  of  coincidences.  You  must  remind 
me,  when  I  see  you  next,  to  tell  you  of  a  very  re- 
markable one  which  has  just  happened  to  me  in 
connection  with  a  knitting-needle  and  dear  Canon 
Hoadley." 

"So  that's  all  right,"  said  Drusilla's  mother. 

"Yes,  and  jolly  lucky,"  said  Lionel. 

"I  think,"  said  Drusilla,  "it's  all  wrong.  You 
talk  as  if  I  were  ashamed  of  it  as  well  as  all  the 
rest  of  you,  but  I'm  not,  and  I  think  it's  horrible 
to  deceive  Grandmamma  like  that.  In  fact  I  shall 
blame  myself  as  long  as  I  live  for  letting  Kent 
interfere  at  all." 

"You  couldn't  help  it,"  I  said  meekly. 

"If  you  hadn't  gone  to  the  court,"  said  Drusilla, 
"to  see  the  police  and  talk  the  magistrate  over" 
(the  woman's  view  of  the  English  law!)  "I  should 
have  gone  to  prison,  and  then  Grandmamma  would 
certainly  have  known.  I  wish  I  had  stopped  you. 


IN  THE  MODERN   SMITHFIELD         185 

The  next  time  I  shall  go  through  with  it,  I 
promise  you,  so  you'd  better  all  look  out.  Mean- 
while, I  shall  write  to  Grandmamma  and  tell  her 
every  thing." 

"Don't  be  such  an  ass,"  said  Lionel. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  her  mother,  "do  you 
really  think  that  is  necessary?" 

"Really,"  replied  Drusilla  firmly. 

"Oh,  Kent,"  said  her  mother  to  me,  "do  con- 
vince her  how  unnecessary  that  is.  Poor 
Grandmamma  —  at  her  age  too !  Surely  there 
is  no  need.  I  don't  want  ever  to  interfere  in  a 
case  of  conscience,  but  surely  there  are  times  .  .  . 
Truth.  .  .  .  Surely  now  and  then  silence  .  .  . 
and  it's  too  difficult.  Kent,  you  know  what  I 
mean,  do  tell  her." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  I  said,  "but  I'm  afraid 
Drusilla  is  right.  There  was  not,  as  you  say,  the 
slightest  need  to  inform  old  Mrs.  Wynne  off  her 
own  bat;  but  I  don't  see  how  she  can  let  the  pres- 
ent misunderstanding  continue  and  retain  that 
admiration  of  herself  which  is  needful  for  us  all 
to  get  through  life  decently." 

I  did  not  mean  this  to  be  cruel,  but  Lionel, 
who  cannot  forgive  his  sister  for  entertaining 
views  so  uncomfortable  to  himself  at  his  club 
(and  who  is,  moreover,  a  Turk  at  heart,  like  most 
Englishmen)  added  the  poison. 

"No,"  he  said,  "martyrs  must  advertise  or  they 
won't  keep  going.  It  is  by  letting  every  one 
know  about  their  courage  that  they  get  it  and 
keep  it." 


186  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Poor  Drusilla!  this  is  the  hardest  cut  of  all,  for 
there  was  just  enough  truth  to  sting  —  her  revolt 
being  largely  imitative.  She  flung  out  of  the  room 
in  a  rage. 

Naomi,  who  had  taken  no  part  in  the  dis- 
cussion except  to  try  to  stop  Lionel,  followed 
her. 

Alderley,  when  told  about  it,  took,  I  think,  a 
wise  course.  "Certainly  she  must  unburden,  if  she 
wishes  to,"  he  said;  "but  she  must  go  to  Ludlow 
and  tell  the  story  in  person.  I  won't  have  it  done 
by  letter." 

And  so  Drusilla,  very  unwillingly,  when  the 
time  came  (our  moral  duty  being  often  a  con- 
foundedly uncomfortable  thing,  which  it  is  far 
simpler  to  neglect)  was  packed  off  to  Ludlow 
with  her  poor  little  history  of  revolt,  which  (as 
her  father  had  foreseen)  was  becoming  a  good 
deal  of  a  bore. 

The  old  lady,  like  her  son,  took  it  very  well, 
Drusilla' s  honesty  in  the  matter  pleasing  her  far 
more  than  the  unwomanliness  of  the  conduct 
displeased  her.  Moreover,  very  old  people  rather 
like  a  little  dare-devil  in  the  young.  But  Drusilla 
had  her  punishment  too. 

"Well,  well,"  Grandmamma  said,  "we  won't  say 
any  more  about  it.  What  we  must  do  for  you 
now,  my  dear,  is  to  find  you  a  nice  husband;" 
the  result  being  a  series  of  garden-parties  and 
picnics  at  which  curates  and  youthful  squires 
were  shamelessly  paraded  before  our  little  fire- 
brand, almost  as  if  she  had  been  a  marriageable 


IN  THE  MODERN  SMITHFIELD         187 

South  Sea  islander,  as  indeed  she  practically  was. 
When  it  comes  to  marriage  we  are  all  savages. 

Drusilla,  however,  to  use  a  phrase  of  Lionel's, 
was  not  taking  any.  She  frightened  the  squires 
with  her  politics,  and  the  curates  with  her  theology, 
or  the  want  of  it. 

"My  dear  Grandmamma,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
want  to  marry." 

"Nonsense,  child,"  said  the  old  lady;  "of  course 
you  want  to  marry.  All  women  do.  What  you 
mean  is,  you  don't  want  to  marry  any  one  that 
you  don't  want  to  marry." 

Drusilla  did  not  acquiesce,  but  the  chorus  of 
Alf  Pinto's  latest  song,  as  repeated  far  too  often 
by  Dollie  Heathcote  and  Lionel,  ran  through  her 
head  — 

"Mr.  Right!     Mr.  Right! 

He  may  not  have  knocked  just  yet; 
But  cheer  up,  girls,  he  is  putting  on  his  boots, 
And  he'll  soon  be  here,  you  bet." 

Mr.  Right !  Mr.  Right !  Was  there  a  Mr.  Right 
for  every  one?  she  wondered;  for  obviously  the 
music-hall  philosophy  was  a  little  too  general. 
Statistics  alone  proved  that. 

As  it  turned  out  —  but  we  shall  see. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

SOME  MODERN  CHILDREN  ARE  PRO- 
VIDED WITH  SOME  VERY  CONGE- 
NIAL MATERIAL  FOR  LAUGHTER 

ON  a  fine  Sunday  afternoon  Naomi  and  I 
walked  through  three  parks  and  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  to  have  tea  with  the  Estabrooks. 
On  Sunday  they  have  a  sit-down  tea  round  the 
schoolroom  table:  a  meal  notable  for  cake  and 
noise. 

I  put  into  my  pocket  a  recent  discovery  at 
Bemerton's  —  a  little  manual  for  children  belong- 
ing to  the  early  eighteenth  century,  entitled  The 
Polite  Academy,  or  School  of  Behaviour  for  Young 
Gentlemen  and  Ladies,  intended  as  a  foundation  for 
good  manners  and  polite  address  in  Masters  and 
Misses. 

"Do  you  want  to  hear  me  read  something?"  I 
asked  after  tea,  and  in  response  to  a  by  no  means 
frenzied  appeal  (for  reading  aloud  is  not  the  joy 
it  was  in  my  childhood)  I  began,  after  first  ex- 
plaining the  purpose  of  the  book. 

I  wish  the  original  authors  could  have  been 
1 88 


CHILDREN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN     189 

present,  not  for  their  happiness,  I  fear,  but  for 
their  amazement  at  the  change  that  has  come 
over  children  and  parents;  for  I  have  no  doubt 
they  wrote  it  quite  earnestly  and  believed  in  its 
rightness,  and  to  hear  Kenneth's  comments  alone 
would  have  startled  them  more  than  it  would 
startle  that  modern  boy  if  the  family  Aberdeen 
terrier  stood  up  and  publicly  said  grace  in  a  loud 
voice. 

The  perfect  child,  as  formed  by  this  book,  would 
be  unbearable,  and  probably  never  existed;  but 
we  must  suppose  that  such  works  had  their  place, 
and  not  so  long  ago  either,  although  it  is  difficult 
to  project  the  imagination  to  that  period,  certain 
lines  of  thought  having  so  completely  gone  out. 
For  example,  what  point  is  there  now  in  such  a 
counsel  as  this:  — 

"Be  not  proud  because  you  are  above  the 
vulgar,  for  there  are  others  above  you." 

It  is  probable  that  not  even  the  poor  put  the 
case  so  baldly  any  more,  while  as  for  what  are 
called  the  middle-classes  (if  such  exist,  but  one  can 
never  find  any  one  to  admit  belonging  to  them), 
they  certainly  do  not  agree  that  they  owe  homage 
to  any  one,  whatever  they  may  do  in  the  presence 
of  the  titled. 

The  fact  probably  is  that  there  is  no  longer 
any  accessible  aristocracy.  The  old  nobility  is  in 
hiding,  while  the  new  increases  so  swiftly  and 
apparently  so  capriciously  that  the  ordinary  citizen 
no  longer  accepts  it  with  the  uncritical  reverence 
as  of  old,  but  looks  the  gift  horse,  so  to  speak,  in 


190  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  mouth.  A  lord  is  no  longer,  as  he  used  to  be, 
a  lord:  he  is  a  law-lord,  or  a  life-peer,  or  an 
ennobled  brewer;  something  devilish  like  our- 
selves—  we  know  his  woof  and  texture. 

Again,  with  money  now  able  to  do  so  much 
more  than  blood,  aristocrats  lose  in  that  way  too, 
to  say  nothing  of  their  loss  through  blood  doing 
as  much  to  get  money  as  it  has  sometimes  had 
to  do. 

England  is  still  largely  feudal,  but  it  no  longer 
includes  among  its  instructions  to  the  young  a 
section  entitled,  "Of  Behaviour  to  Superiors." 

"Take  off  your  hat  when  any  great  person 
passes  by,  though  you  do  not  know  him;  it  is  a 
respect  due  to  his  rank." 

That  is  meaningless  to-day,  and  very  happily 
so,  I  think;  but  I  would  rather  see  it  restored 
to  the  curriculum  than  such  a  disgusting  counsel 
as  the  following:  — 

"Be  always  pliable  and  obliging;  for  obstinacy 
is  a  fault  of  vulgar  children." 

The  next  section  treats  of  "Behaviour  to 
Equals "  —  who  again  are  no  longer  mentioned 
among  English  people  and  cannot  easily  be  found. 
It  is  an  odd  position  to  recognise  neither  superiors 
nor  equals;  but  we  can,  most  of  us,  fill  it  with  dis- 
tinction. 

"Love  all  your  equals  and  they  will  all  love 
you." 

"Always  speak  to  them  with  respect,  that  they 
may  treat  you  with  respect  again." 

"If  any  of  them  are  cross,  be  you  civil  never- 


CHILDREN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN     191 

theless:  his  churlishness  will  disgrace  him,  while 
your  good  nature  will  gain  you  love  and 
esteem." 

The  section,  "Of  Behaviour  at  School,"  made 
Kenneth  and  Christopher,  the  two  Westminsters, 
very  merry :  — 

"Behave  to  your  teachers  with  humility  and 
to  your  schoolfellows  with  respect." 

"Make  your  bow  or  courtesy  when  you  enter, 
and  walk  straight  to  your  seat." 

"Never  quarrel  at  school,  for  it  shows  idleness 
and  bad  temper." 

"When  the  master  speaks  to  you,  rise  up  to 
hear  him,  and  look  him  in  the  face  as  he  speaks, 
with  modesty  and  attention.  Begin  not  to 
answer  him  before  he  has  done  speaking,  then 
bow  to  him  with  respect  and  answer  him  with 
humility." 

"If  you  have  occasion  to  complain  of  a  school- 
fellow, first  speak  to  him  softly  and  desire  him  to 
desist.  If  he  will  not,  then  rise  up  and  wait  an 
opportunity;  and  when  the  master's  or  usher's 
eye  is  upon  you  bow  and  say  softly,  and  in  a  few 
words,  what  your  complaint  is." 

This  was  too  much. 

"Did  they  really  ever  behave  like  that?" 
Kenneth  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  said.  "This  is  a  book  that 
seems  to  have  been  popular,  for  it  has  gone  into 
many  editions." 

Kenneth  stated  himself  to  be  jiggered. 

I  went  on :  — 


192  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"If  you  see  your  play-fellows  do  anything 
wrong,  tell  them  of  it." 

"Return  a  jest  with  another,  but  always  with 
good  manners." 

"Never  call  anyone  by  a  reproachful  name." 

It  is  odd  to  think  that  anybody  at  any  period 
could  seriously  have  set  down  such  mandates; 
but  there  they  are  in  black  and  white  —  a  kind  of 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  by  a  dancing-master.  It  is 
when  one  reads  counsels  of  something  more  than 
perfection  —  counsels  of  pedantic  priggishness, 
shall  we  say  —  to  natural,  healthy  children,  that 
one  realises  how  necessary  compromise  is  to  daily 
life  and  how  far  removed  perfection  is  from  the 
natural  human  being. 

This  little  book  may  of  course  have  been,  even 
in  its  own  day,  excessively  proper  and  inhuman: 
but  I  have  seen  others  hardly  less  so.  We  have 
to  remember  that  children,  as  creatures  of  de- 
light, are  of  comparatively  recent  discovery.  They 
were  for  many  years  merely  the  young  of  man, 
to  be  broken  in  like  dogs.  Not  even  the  men  of 
imagination  knew  any  better.  No  child  was,  as 
far  as  I  have  read,  thought  a  fit  subject  for  intro- 
duction into  a  novel  until  Henry  Brooke's  Fool 
of  Quality ,  and  even  there,  although  there  are  the 
high  spirits  of  the  two  schoolboys,  there  are  no 
infant-like  tendernesses  and  natural  gaiety.  A  few 
poets  had  praised  the  young  very  gaily  —  Prior 
and  Ambrose  Phillips,  for  example  —  but  rather 
as  courtiers  than  human  beings:  it  was  left  for 
Blake  first  to  see  that  the  child  was  not  merely 


CHILDREN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN     193 

the  young  of  man  but  a  separate  creature,  filled 
with  fugitive  and  exquisite  charm. 

To-day,  of  course,  we  are  overdoing  the  dis- 
covery. The  child  is  set  in  the  midst,  and  we  sit 
around  worshipping  and  applauding  and  vying 
with  each  other  in  detecting  and  celebrating 
darlingnesses. 

I  went  on  to  the  section  on  "Behaviour  to 
Parents  and  the  Family  "  :  — 

"As  soon  as  you  come  into  the  room  to  your 
parents  and  relatives,  bow,  and  stand  near  the 
door  till  you  are  told  when  to  sit." 

"Never  sit  down  till  you  are  desired,  and  then 
not  till  you  have  bowed,  and  answered  what  was 
asked  of  you." 

"When  in  the  room  with  your  parents  and 
relatives,  never  slip  out  privately,  for  that  is 
mean  and  unhandsome." 

"If  you  have  sisters  or  brothers  it  is  your 
duty  to  love  them:  they  will  love  you  for  it  and 
it  will  be  pleasing  to  your  parents  and  pleasure 
to  yourselves." 

"Be  ready  to  give  them  anything  they  like,  and 
they  will  give  you  what  you  desire." 

"Will  they?"  said  Norah,  with  bitter  sarcasm; 
for  Norah,  as  I  have  said,  is  the  nursery  drudge. 

"If  you  think  they  are  cross  to  you,  be  silent 
and  gentle:  and  if  that  does  not  make  them  kind, 
complain  to  your  father,  mother,  and  relatives." 

"Never  revenge  yourself,  for  that  is  wicked; 
your  relatives  will  always  take  your  part,  when 
you  behave  with  quietness." 


194  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

If  the  child  has  been  allowed  to  become 
human  and  individual,  it  is  no  less  true  that  the 
parents  and  relatives  have  lost  their  godhead  too. 
At  the  time  of  this  book,  parents  could  make  no 
mistake,  and  every  child  had  to  be  like  every 
other  child.  No  wonder  -that  anthropomorphism 
crept  in:  it  began  with  the  first  child;  it  began 
with  Cain.  Ever  since  then,  God  has  been  merely 
a  larger  man  and  a  father. 

But  as  fathers,  under  the  new  regime,  become 
more  companionable  (as  I  see  them  becoming 
every  day),  this  old  ideal  must  weaken,  for  God 
will  smile  again  —  or  rather  will  begin  to  smile. 

The  contrast  between  the  unimaginative  joyless- 
ness  of  these  counsels  of  perfection  and  the 
laughter  with  which  they  were  received  brought 
home  to  one  with  curious  vividness  the  differ- 
ence, not  only  between  the  children  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago  and  to-day,  but  between  the 
parents  too.  Where  the  old  parent  admonished, 
the  modern  parent  jokes.  A  kind  of  light  banter 
has  become  the  language  of  fathers  and  children 
in  place  of  the  ancient  minatory  formality. 

Next  came  "Behaviour  at  Meals"  :  — 

"Nothing  shows  the  difference  between  a  young 
gentleman  and  a  vulgar  boy  so  much  as  their 
behaviour  in  eating." 

"Sit  patiently  till  the  company  are  helped,  and 
you  will  not  be  forgotten." 

"Do  not  ask  till  you  see  the  company  are  all 
helped:  then  if  it  happens  you  have  been  forgot, 
you  will  be  served." 


CHILDREN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN     195 

"Whatever  is  given  you,  be  satisfied  it  is  good, 
and  desire  no  other." 

"In  eating  fruit,  do  not  swallow  the  stones,  but 
lay  them  and  the  stalks  on  one  side  of  your  plate, 
laying  one  of  the  leaves  that  came  with  the  fruit 
over  them." 

"Mightn't  they  see  who  they  were  going  to 
marry?"  Winifred  asked. 

"Never  regard  what  another  has  on  his  plate: 
it  looks  as  if  you  wanted  it." 

"When  you  drink,  bow  to  some  one  of  the 
company  and  say  Sir  or  Madam." 

This  set  them  all  shouting. 

"Chew  your  meat  well  before  you  swallow  it; 
but  do  this  decently,  without  making  faces." 

"One  for  you,  Sam,"  said  Winifred. 

The  next  section  took  us  Into  the  street :  — 

"When  the  school  hours  are  over  go  out,  as 
you  came  in,  quietly,  softly,  and  decently." 

"When  you  come  near  a  mob,  walk  to  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  and  never  concern  yourself 
what's  the  matter." 

"Oh,  I  like  that!"  said  Kenneth.  "What 
about  a  horse  down?" 

"I  saw  a  chap  being  run  in  the  other  day," 
said  Christopher. 

"Never  whistle  or  sing  as  you  walk  alone;  for 
these  are  marks  of  clownishness  and  folly." 

My  own  childhood  is  not  so  very  remote,  but 
it  is  far  enough  away  for  vast  changes  to  have 
occurred  in  the  relations  of  parents  and  children. 
We  were  all  happy  and  familiar  enough,  but 


196  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

there  was  none  of  the  freedom  of  speech  between 
young  and  old  that  is  now  encouraged.  Dignity 
and  age  are  equally  out  of  fashion.  We  are  all 
young  to-day  and  almost  more  terrified  of  being 
out  of  things  than  of  being  accused  of  a  want  of 
humour.  The  last  thing  to  go  is  juvenility. 

Afterwards,  I  told  the  children  a  little  about 
the  Chinese  pride  in  their  parents  and  the  high 
honour  in  which  good  sons  are  held  in  China. 
Not  the  least  entertaining  part  of  my  Chinese 
book  deals  with  filial  piety,  of  which  that  people 
have  Twenty-four  Examples  for  the  edification  of 
youth.  I  told  them  about  Lao  Lai  Tzu,  of  the 
sixth  century  B.C.,  who  "at  seventy  was  still 
accustomed"  —  "still"  is  good  —  "to  divert  his  aged 
parents  by  dressing  himself  up  and  cutting  capers 
before  them." 

Christopher  at  once  said  that  they  did  that  very 
often,  but  he  had  to  admit  that  the  prime  object 
was  to  divert  themselves. 

Huang  Hsiang,  another  of  the  Twenty-four 
Examples,  who  died  A.D.  122,  greatly  delighted 
their  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  for  he  "used  to  fan 
his  parents'  pillow  in  summer  to  make  it  cool,  and 
get  into  their  bed  in  winter  to  take  the  chill  off." 

Other  examples  I  kept  to  myself,  such  as 
Tsing  Tsan  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  who  maintained 
that  one  should  remain  single,  since  "with  the 
possession  of  wife  and  children,  the  earnestness  of 
a  pious  son  would  be  likely  to  wane."  None  the 
less  he  married,  but  regained  consistency  by 
divorcing  his  wife  "for  serving  up  to  his  mother- 


CHILDREN  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN     197 

in-law  some  badly-stewed  pears."  This  would 
have  been  beyond  them;  but  I  sent  Kenneth  into 
roars  of  laughter  by  the  story  of  the  youthful 
Emperor  who  amused  himself  by  shooting  blunted 
arrows  at  the  stomach  of  the  sleeping  Regent  — 
an  indiscretion  which  led  to  a  speedy  succession. 

There  was  a  beautiful  evening  light  when 
Naomi  and  I  walked  back:  the  light  that  always 
makes  me  sad,  and  I  was  sad  too  to  think  of 
the  contrast  between  that  noisy,  happy  home, 
so  very  full  of  life  and  high  spirits,  and  my 
own  solitary  silent  rooms;  yes,  and  Naomi's  too. 
There  is  something  wrong  in  a  civilisation  which 
makes  it  so  easily  possible  for  so  sweetly  maternal 
a  woman  never  to  have  children  of  her  own. 

I  slipped  my  arm  through  hers  and  we  walked 
without  speaking. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  LEADS  TO 
PLANS  OF  TRAVEL,  AND  NAOMI 
AND  I  ACCEPT  A  RESPONSIBILITY 

"  T    DON'T  suppose  you've  heard  the  news,"  I 

J-     said,  as  we  settled  down  to  our  soup. 

"Do  you  mean  about  the  Traffic  Bill?"  said 
Alderley. 

"Or  Notts  and  Yorkshire?"  said  Lionel. 

"Or  the  Queen  of  Spain?"  said  my  sister. 

"Or  John's  portrait  of  Mrs.  Grundy?"  said 
Drusilla. 

"  Or  Mr.  Bemerton's  latest  find  ?  "  said  Naomi. 

"No,"  I  said,  "none  of  these.  You  couldn't 
really  have  guessed  if  you  had  gone  on  all 
night.  The  news  is,  that  I  am  going  to  take 
you  on  the  Continent  for  a  month  —  as  many  of 
you  as  want  to  go." 

Naomi  spoke  first.  "But,  Kent,"  she  said, 
"how ?" 

"Hush!"  I  said.  Then  I  took  my  pocket- 
book  out  of  my  pocket,  opened  it,  extracted  a 
slip  of  paper,  unfolded  it,  and  laid  it  on  the 

198 


AN  UNEXPECTED   CHEQUE  199 

table  before  her.  "There,"  I  said,  "is  a  cheque 
for  £483  los.  36.  It  came  to  me  this  morning 
all  unexpectedly,  being  the  payment  of  a  debt 
which  I  had  long  since  given  up  hope  of  ever 
receiving.  In  other  words,  it  is  sheer  profit, 
like  all  repaid  loans. 

"If  we  can  all  go  to'  the  Continent  for  a 
month  on  that  amount,"  I  continued,  "let  us 
do  so.  If  not,  let  us  go  for  three  weeks  or 
a  fortnight.  But  I  intend  to  take  some  of 
you,  if  not  all. 

"The  question  is,"  I  went  on,  "where  shall 
we  go?  We  must  debate  the  point  with  great 
care,  and  the  majority  will  decide.  I,  I  may 
say  at  once,  have  no  preference.  All  I  want 
to  do  is  go  to  the  Continent  for  a  month  and 
pay  everything,  provided  of  course  that  some  one 
else  will  carry  the  purse.  That  I  could  never  do." 

"Dollie  would  love  it,"  said  Drusilla.  "Besides, 
he  can  talk  French  like  a " 

"Like  a  french  polisher,"  said  Lionel,  who  "has 
a  turn  for  mechanical  wit. 

"Ah !"  I  said,  "you  lean  towards  France." 

"Does  he  know  Italian?"  asked  my  step- 
sister. 

"  We  seem  to  be  crossing  the  Alps,"  I  said. 

"But,  my  dear  Kent,"  Naomi  remarked  very 
earnestly,  "you  don't  really  mean  to  spend  all 
that  money  on  a  holiday?" 

"Why  not,"  I  asked,  "if  it  comes  from 
a  clear  sky?  Let  us  consider  it  manna  and 
quails,  and  consume  it." 


200  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"I  certainly  should  not  dream  of  going," 
Naomi  replied,  "unless  you  promised  at  least 
to  halve  the  amount  and  use  the  other  half 
for  some  other  purpose  —  helping  some  of  my 
poor  people,  for  example." 

I  threw  the  cheque  to  Naomi.  "There,"  I 
said,  "put  it  in  the  bank,  and  when  we  are 
ready  to  go,  give  us  exactly  half  of  it,  and 
we  will  stay  away  until  it  is  spent  or  we  are 
all  tired  of  seeing  each  other  at  table  d'hote. 
The  other  half  you  must  do  with  exactly  as 
you  will." 

"You  dear  thing!"  Naomi  cried. 

All  through  dinner  we  discussed  the  merits  of 
Continental  resorts. 

We  began  with  France.  Lionel  suggested 
Trouville;  but  his  sisters  would  have  none 
of  it. 

"Then  I  can't  go,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't 
possibly  be  away  for  more  than  a  few  days 
until  the  season  closes.  We've  got  several 
matches  yet." 

Drusilla  also  remarked  that  she  did  not  want 
to  be  away  for  so  long  as  a  month,  but  would  not 
explain  why. 

Alderley  wanted  Brixen.  He  had  heard  so 
much  of  it  from  a  Judge.  No  one  else  had 
heard  of  it  at  all,  and  he  became  very  plaintive 
about  money  foolishly  flung  away  on  the  educa- 
tion of  the  young.  "Brixen,"  he  said,  "is  in 
the  Tyrol  —  a  mountainous  district  of  Austria." 

After   a  short   sharp   passage   with   Drusilla  he 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  201 

admitted  to  having  first  met  the  name  and 
fame  of  Brixen  only  a  fortnight  ago. 

My  sister  voted  for  the  Juras.  She  had  seen 
a  picture  in  the  Academy,  of  a  valley  of  wild 
flowers  there,  by  MacWhirter,  and  she  had 
always  longed  to  visit  them. 

But  against  Switzerland  rose  the  universal 
voice. 

Norway  was  excluded  on  account  of  the  sea 
voyage;  Rome  for  its  heat;  Spain  for  ignorance 
of  the  language  and  (on  Mrs.  Wynne's  account) 
prevalence  of  anarchists  and  bombs;  the  Black 
Forest  for  its  want  of  civilised  apparatus;  the 
Tyrol  for  its  steepnesses. 

And  then  Naomi  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 
"Venice,"  she  said. 

Of  course. 

Later  in  the  evening  Dollie  Heathcote  came 
in.  He  had  looked  round  the  dancing  rooms 
to  which  he  had  been  invited,  had  disapproved, 
and,  disapproving,  had  with  a  bachelor's  lofty 
privileges  done  what  he  called  a  guy. 

"Besides,"  he  said,  not  in  excuse,  for  he  admits 
to  no  errors,  but  in  further  explanation  of  a 
perfectly  rational  line  of  conduct,  "there  were 
crowds  of  men  over — oceans." 

"What  do  you  know  of  Venice?"  Naomi 
asked  him. 

"Venice,"  he  said,  "I  know  all  about  Venice. 
It  is  a  suburb  of  New  York,  the  streets  are 
flooded,  and  there  is  nothing  to  eat  except  for 
mosquitoes,  and  they  eat  you." 


202  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"Very  good,"  I  said. 

"Don't  encourage  the  ass,"  said  Lionel. 

"Very  good,"  I  said,  "but  now  be  practical." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  said  Dollie,  "I  know  nothing 
of  Venice  except  that  the  wise  are  said  to  stay 
at  the  Lido,  where  there  is  ripping  bathing  and 
no  mosquitoes,  and  go  over  to  Venice  when  they 
want  to.  It  is  quite  close  —  much  closer  than 
the  Isle  of  Wight  is  to  Portsmouth  and  much  jollier. 
I  hate  the  Isle  of  Wight." 

"Will  you  come  with  us?"  I  asked  him.  "As 
my  guest?" 

But  he  could  not.  He  had  arranged  a  series 
of  visits  for  the  Long  Vacation,  and  he  obviously 
wanted  to  pay  them,  or  he  would  have  accepted 
my  invitation  instantly.  His  duty  always  lies 
along  the  primrosiest  path. 

"Then  it  is  you  who  will  have  to  pay  the  bills 
and  tip  the  waiters,"  I  said  to  the  K.C. 

"Alderley  loves  that,"  said  his  wife. 

And  so  it  was  settled:  we  were  to  go  to  Venice 
and  go  very  soon. 

I  wrote  to  Miss  Gold  to  tell  her  of  the  pro- 
jected journey,  and  she  replied  instantly,  asking 
me  to  come  down  at  once  and  to  be  sure  to  bring 
Naomi  with  me. 

She  received  us  very  warmly  and  got  to  busi- 
ness almost  instantly. 

"I  have  been  making  a  new  will,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  want  you  to  be  my  executors  —  you,  Kent, 
and  Miss  Wynne.  It  is,  I  know,  unusual  for  one 
to  ask  one  who  is  outwardly  a  total  stranger,  as 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  203 

Miss  Wynne  may  feel  herself  to  be,  to  take  such 
a  post;  but  lying  here  and  thinking,  I  seem  to 
know  you  so  very  well,  my  dear,  quite  as  well  as 
I  know  many  people  whom  I  see,  and  I  want  you 
to  humour  an  old  sick  woman  who  has  so  long 
been  a  friend  of  your  friend  Mr.  Falconer. 

"Besides,"  Miss  Gold  continued,  "my  will  is  not 
a  very  personal  affair.  There  will  be  no  grasping 
relations  to  deal  with.  I  merely  want  to  leave 
the  money  in  trust  to  you  two,  to  go  on  with  cer- 
tain schemes  that  I  should  not  wish  at  once  to 
be  interrupted  just  because  I  was  no  longer  lying 
here  as  usual.  You  will  be  business  people  — 
that  is  all." 

"Tell  us,"  I  said,  "what  some  of  the  schemes 
are." 

"Well,"  she  began,  "for  one  thing  I  have  a 
seaside  home  for  London  children  —  a  mixture  of 
seaside  and  country.  It  is  in  Sussex.  I  bought 
an  old  farmhouse  and  windmill,  about  a  mile 
inland,  and  added  to  them  until  we  can  accom- 
modate twenty  children  and  three  or  four  people 
to  look  after  them.  The  farm  goes  on  all  the 
time,  but  the  mill  is  idle.  They  play  hi  that. 
There  are  very  good  sands  there,  I  am  told,  and 
woods  too.  It  seems  to  be  an  ideal  spot.  The 
children  go  down  in  twenties  for  ten  days  each 
from  April  till  the  middle  of  October  —  that  means 
about  four  hundred  children." 

"But  how  do  you  choose  the  children?"  I 
asked. 

"Well,  that  is  of  course  a  difficulty.    A  Poor 


204  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Law  Inspector  in  Clerkenwell  helps  me.  They 
are  all  Clerkenwell  children.  One  must  be  local 
or  one  is  lost.  He  tells  me  the  best  cases. 

"I  have  good  helpers  in  Sussex,"  she  con- 
tinued. "The  farmer's  wife  was  my  father's  cook. 
She  and  two  or  three  girls  do  the  house  work. 
There  is  also  a  lady  in  charge  with  some 
assistants.  It  all  goes  perfectly  smoothly. 

"That  is  one  thing.  Then  there  is  my  home 
of  rest  for  horses,"  she  added.  "That  might  be 
transferred  to  Sussex,  since  this  house  will  be  sold. 
For  another  thing,  I  have  got  a  paper." 

"What  kind  of  a  paper?" 

"Oh,  a  straightforward  critical  paper  that  tries 
to  see  the  truth  and  tell  it.  It's  rather  expensive 
because  we  won't  have  any  advertisements,  but  I 
don't  mind  that." 

I  began  to  see  daylight.  "I  think  I  know  it," 
I  said.  "Is  it  The  Balance?" 

"Yes.     Do  you  think  it  is  worth  the  money?" 

"Oh  yes,"  I  said,  "quite." 

"And  Mr.  Dabney?" 

"He's  all  right.  At  any  rate,  you'll  never  get 
a  better  man." 

"He  really  does  seem  to  have  no  axe  to 
grind,"  Miss  Gold  remarked. 

"No;  except  the  angels',"  I  said.  "His  fault 
or  foible,"  I  added,  "is  a  tendency  to  scold;  but 
that  is,  of  course,  a  defect  of  a  quality,  and 
after  all  it  is  to  a  large  extent  mitigated  by  the 
other  contributions  to  the  paper  by  gentler  hands. 
Naomi's  brother  writes  for  it,"  I  said. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  205 

"I  should  want,"  Miss  Gold  said,  "to  leave 
you  absolute  discretion  as  to  keeping  these  things 
on  or  stopping  them  whenever  you  thought  best. 
A  time  comes  when  the  usefulness  of  almost  all 
charities  seems  to  be  exhausted.  The  difficulty, 
of  course,  is  to  keep  one's  helpers  keen.  The 
transmission  of  enthusiasm  is  the  hardest  of  all 
operations. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  "there  would  be 
a  sum  for  minor  needs.  Every  one  knows  of 
small  wants — 'deserving  cases,'  as  the  phrase 
is.  Mr.  Falconer  has  told  me  of  two  people  I 
should  like  to  do  something  for,  although  it  is 
a  question,  as  Mr.  Trist  says,  if  it  is  possible  to 
help  failures.  I  mean  that  poor  old  cataloguer 
at  Bemerton's  and  the  waterman  at  the  corner. 
I  believe  that  one  ought  to  be  able  to  think 
out  something  even  for  them;  but  I  know  how 
difficult  it  is,  because  I  have  tried.  I  have  given 
just  such  a  man  as  the  waterman  an  overcoat, 
but  he  pawned  it  at  once. 

"And  I  have  a  great  belief,  rarely  shaken," 
Miss  Gold  went  on,  "in  the  value  of  surprise 
gifts.  I  lie  here  longing  to  project  five-pound 
notes,  ten-pound  notes,  even  twenty-pound  notes 
(if  there  are  such  things)  on  to  the  breakfast- 
tables  of  poor  clerks'  wives  who  know  what  a 
holiday  is  but  cannot  take  one,  and  brave  typists 
who  live  on  tea  and  bread  and  butter,  and  ladies 
in  reduced  circumstances  who  retain  a  little  vanity 
but  have  no  means  to  gratify  it." 

"Oh  yes!"  Naomi  exclaimed,  with  shining  eyes. 


206  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"But  how  can  I  learn  about  such  needs,  lying 
here  as  I  do?"  said  my  dear  generous  Agnes. 
"One  can  apply  money  well  in  that  way  only 
after  making  inquiries  and  moving  much  among 
people,  observing  and  observing.  But  you  two 
will  have  to  do  it,"  she  added  triumphantly,  "be- 
cause I  am  setting  apart  a  sum  the  interest  of 
which  is  solely  to  be  used  in  that  way." 

I  gasped,  and  Naomi  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

"But  tell  me,"  Miss  Gold  said  to  Naomi,  "some- 
thing about  your  poor  people." 

And  Naomi  kept  us  laughing  by  her  droll 
descriptions  —  laughing  and  sympathising  too. 
Most  of  her  stories  unite  the  comic  and  the 
pathetic  in  perfectly  equal  proportions.  There  is 
an  old  lady  in  reduced  circumstances  in  North 
London,  for  example,  who  lives  in  a  large  house 
(her  own)  with  one  small  servant,  and  lets  a  few 
rooms.  She  was  lately,  when  Naomi  called  on 
her,  out  of  lodgers  and  all  alone,  her  little  servant 
being  on  a  brief  holiday.  "But  aren't  you  very 
lonely?"  Naomi  asked.  "I  am,  rather,"  she  ad- 
mitted. "In  fact,  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do  if  it  wasn't  for  this"  — pointing  to  a  pill-box 
at  her  side — "but  I  hear  it  moving  now  and 
then,  and  it  seems  to  be  company."  The  pill- 
box contained  a  jumping  bean. 

Just  before  we  left,  Naomi  went  into  the 
paddock  to  take  to  the  horses  a  bag  of  little 
carrots  which  she  had  brought  on  purpose. 

"What  a  dear  girl!"  said  Miss  Gold. 

"Yes,"  I  said. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CHEQUE  207 

We  were  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"She  should  marry,"  then  said  Miss  Gold. 
"Some  man  much  older  than  herself.  What  about 
Herbert  Trist?" 

Why  did  I  feel  so  annoyed? 

"Trist,"  I  said,  "Trist  is  not  likely  to  marry 
any  one." 

"We  must  bring  them  together,"  Miss  Gold 
replied. 

"I  don't  think  that  is  at  all  necessary,"  I  said. 
"I  hate  match-making  or  any  kind  of  interference 
with  people." 

Miss  Gold  smiled. 

"Well,"  she  said,  as  Naomi  returned,  "good-bye. 
I  am  so  glad  I  can  count  on  you.  Now  I  can 
die  more  happily." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WE  ARE  WHIRLED  AWAY  BY  THE  2.20 
FROM  CHARING  CROSS  AND  MEET 
THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ADRIATIC 

WE  went  straight  through,  leaving  Charing 
Cross  by  the  2.20  which  has  carried 
so  many  happy  travellers  away  from  London 
through  the  smiling  valleys  of  Kent.  Were  I 
a  poet,  I  would  address  an  ode  to  that  romantic 
liberating  train. 

It  was  after  midnight  on  the  following  day 
when  we  drew  up  at  last  at  Venice,  tired  and 
dusty  and  hungry  and  stained  and  not  a  little 
wondering  why  we  had  left  London.  But  the 
next  few  minutes  set  that  right,  for  all  our 
weariness  rolled  away  as  we  sat  in  the  gondola 
under  a  soft  starry  sky,  and  watched  the  lights 
in  the  water,  and  heard  the  porters  in  fluent 
altercation,  and  at  last  got  away  and  began  to 
thread  the  narrow  canal  to  Danieli's,  where  we 
were  staying  for  that  night. 

The  next  morning  we  moved  on,  by  Dollie's 
advice,  to  the  large  hotel  by  the  landing-stage 

208 


WE  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  ADRIATIC    209 

at  the  Lido.  I  will  not  say  that  there  are  no 
mosquitoes  —  zanzare  —  there,  but  I  am  prepared 
to  admit  that  the  manager's  theory  is  correct, 
and  that  we  brought  them  with  us  from  Venice. 

The  secret  of  the  peculiar  buoyancy  of  the 
Lido  waters  I  do  not  know;  but  they  are 
wonderful.  "Like  bathing  in  champagne," 
Alderley  said;  and  that,  though  a  vile  so- 
phisticated simile,  comes  near  the  mark.  Other 
sands  may  be  gayer;  but  for  its  gift  of  exuberant 
gladness  the  Lido  comes  first. 

Drusilla's  face,  as  we  met,  on  our  way  to  the 
sea  down  the  wooden  gangway,  on  the  first 
afternoon,  an  Italian  gentleman  clad  almost 
entirely  in  his  own  hair,  was  worth  its  weight  in 
kodak  films. 

"Why  can't  he  wear  a  bath  towel  like  Kent 
and  father?"  she  asked  indignantly. 

"Because  he's  an  Italian,"  was  Naomi's  unan- 
swerable reply,  which,  however  Drusilla  may  have 
resented  its  insufficiency  then,  she  was  bound  to 
agree  with  later;  for  the  sea  was  full  of  such 
shameless  happy  monsters  and  their  ladies, 
gambolling  in  the  waves  with  both  feet  planted 
firmly  and  frankly  on  the  bed  of  the  ocean,  and 
none  of  the  Briton's  shame  at  being  found  out 
no  swimmer  or  any  of  his  acrobatic  efforts  to 
convey  to  the  shore  an  illusion  of  buoyancy. 

Perhaps,  when  all  is  said,  the  profoundest 
difference  between  the  Anglo-Saxon  and  the 
Latin  is  the  Latin's  indifference  to  public 
opinion.  There  is  no  true  civilisation  without 


2io  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

it  —  if  by  civilisation  is  meant  the  art  of  en- 
joying life. 

As  a  general  rule,  after  our  bathing  was  done 
we  lunched  and  then  crossed  to  Venice,  where 
we  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  very  lazily  and 
very  happily.  Venice  indeed  imposes  laziness. 
Even  Americans  doing  Europe  approach  restful- 
ness  there.  There  is  no  hurrying  a  gondolier. 

My  stepsister,  who  had  not  sketched  for  years, 
once  more  produced  her  paint-box  and  block, 
and  we  used  to  establish  her  comfortably  in  a 
corner  and  leave  her  for  an  hour  or  so;  Drusilla 
and  Alderley  paired  off,  and  Naomi  and  I. 
Drusilla  had  of  course  to  see  all  the  pictures, 
and  we  let  her  and  her  father  find  them  for  us 
and  take  us  only  to  those  which  they  thought 
very  good.  Venice  is  not  rich  in  good  pictures; 
the  best  work  of  the  Venetian  school  is  elsewhere. 
Venice  has  the  sprawling  Tintorettos  hi  abund- 
ance, some  of  which  are  magnificent  and  all 
miracles  of  virility;  but  she  has  few  portraits 
from  his  hand  to  set,  for  example,  against  the 
old  Admiral  and  the  warrior  hi  armour  at  Vienna, 
and  nothing  quite  like  the  "  Origin  of  the  Milky 
Way,"  in  our  own  National  Gallery.  Titian, 
again,  after  the  "Assumption,"  may  now  be 
better  studied  away  from  his  old  home  than  hi 
it,  and  there  are  more  exquisite  Guardis  in 
London.  In  the  Museo  Civico,  however,  we  found 
a  great  collection  of  Guardi's  pen  and  pencil 
sketches,  light  as  air.  Giovanni  Bellini,  again, 
save  for  the  little  glowing  allegories  in  the 


WE  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  ADRIATIC     211 

Accademia,  is  not  represented  in  Venice  by 
anything  so  beautiful  as  his  best  pictures  in 
Trafalgar  Square;  but  for  his  brother  Gentile 
(if  you  want  him),  as  for  Carpaccio,  a  journey  to 
Venice  is  indispensable.  Nor  does  one  any  longer 
see  a  Venetian  maturing  into  a  Robusti  or  Vecellio. 
The  Venetians  that  throng  the  piazza  of  San 
Marco  when  the  band  is  playing  are  not  like  that. 
Shrewd  they  seem  to  be,  self-contained,  masters 
of  their  narrow  lives:  but  no  more.  Perhaps  they 
account  for  the  appalling  deterioration  of  modern 
Venetian  art. 

As  for  Naomi  and  me,  we  preferred  the  real 
life  of  Venice  to  its  show  life,  and  we  spent  most 
of  the  time,  after  reaching  the  city,  on  foot.  For 
one  may  walk  about  Venice  all  day,  and  by  fol- 
lowing the  little  narrow  paths  and  bridges  at  ran- 
dom not  only  get  lost  but  come  upon  fascinating 
little  squares  and  churches,  family  groups  at 
the  doorsteps,  and  richly  coloured  fruit  baskets. 
Being  lost  is,  however,  no  inconvenience,  for  the 
Grand  Canal  is  never  far  away,  with  some  adjacent 
pier  where  one  can  board  a  steamer  that  will  in 
time  come  to  the  Molo  again. 

We  did  not  even  see  all  the  show  places. 
The  Doges'  Palace  spread  its  nets  for  Naomi 
and  me  in  vain;  but  I  cannot  say  how  many 
times  we  found  our  way  to  the  statue  of  Barto- 
lommeo  Colleoni  on  horseback  in  the  Campo  SS. 
Giovanni  e  Paolo,  and  more  than  twice  did  we 
cross  to  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  to  be  taken  round 
the  choir  stalls  by  a  courtly  priest  and  hear  him 


212  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

explain  in  fascinating  broken  English  the  carved 
scenes  in  the  crowded  life  of  St.  Bernard;  and 
more  than  twice  did  we  glide  on  from  San  Giorgio 
to  the  Redentore,  where  a  tall  monk  with  a  long 
grey  beard  unveiled  one  after  the  other  the 
treasured  paintings  of  the  sacristy,  and  set  us, 
with  all  the  solicitude  of  an  enthusiast,  in  the 
best  light  for  each,  enlarging  earnestly,  in  easy, 
companionable  Latin,  on  their  beauties.  A  simple, 
kindly  creature,  who  surely  will  be  seated  high  in 
heaven  after  a  life  thus  spent. 

Meeting  some  English  friends  one  day,  we 
heard  that  the  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  no 
longer  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  Edens'  garden,  but 
instead,  the  family  being  away,  their  compatriots 
were  admitted  on  the  presentation  of  a  visiting 
card,  and  off  we  voyaged  thither,  across  the  canal 
della  Giudecca  into  the  narrow  rio  whence  this 
paradise  is  gained:  a  tangled  tropical  place, 
lacking  no  charm  but  undulation.  One  walks 
on  the  flat  between  flowers  and  fruit  along  paths 
that  seem  never-ending,  beneath  a  sun  whose 
beams  carry  a  fragrance  of  their  own  to  add  to 
that  of  the  vegetation.  The  south-west  boundary 
is  the  still  and  magical  lagoon. 

Here  we  loitered  careless  as  man  in  his  first 
state,  while  the  lizards  darted  between  our  feet, 
flashing  in  and  out  of  the  beds  and  the  stone- 
work by  thousands.  That  is  the  ultimate 
impression  conveyed  by  this  Venetian  garden  — 
lizards.  Large  lizards  and  small,  green  and  yellow, 
swift  as  arrows  on  the  wing,  and  stopping  as 


WE  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  ADRIATIC     213 

suddenly  as  arrows  in  the  target,  bright-eyed, 
wary,  daring,  silent  as  shadows,  clear  and  radiant 
as  jewels.  Lizards.  Oranges  and  peaches,  figs 
and  nectarines  may  grow  here  like  weeds;  but 
it  remains  in  the  mind  a  garden  of  lizards. 

On  the  days  when  we  did  not  cross  to  Venice 
we  would  have  tea  either  at  the  casino  or  in  our 
hotel,  watching  the  steamers  empty  and  fill,  and 
the  arrival  or  departure  of  that  prince  in  exile, 
Don  Carlos,  Duke  of  Madrid,  whose  habit  it  was 
every  afternoon  to  visit  the  Lido  in  his  motor 
launch  with  the  ensign  of  Spain,  accompanied, 
like  a  figure  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  by  a  lady, 
a  huge  dog,  and  a  black  page.  Tall  and  massive 
and  bearded,  I  see  him  still,  as  he  returned  to 
his  boat,  pausing  to  open  his  purse  and  distribute 
alms,  as  a  prince  should,  to  all  the  beggars  of  the 
quay. 

Usually  in  the  evening  we  returned  to  Venice 
again  to  hear  the  music  and  eat  an  ice  and  recognise 
our  countrymen.  For  Venice  between  eight  and 
ten  is  concentrated  into  so  small  a  space  that  it 
becomes  a  mere  annexe  of  Piccadilly  and  Broad- 
way. 

When  we  had  pored  over  Baedeker  in  Queen 
Anne's  Gate,  we  had  planned  a  score  of  excursions 
to  neighbouring  places  —  to  Verona  and  Treviso, 
even  to  Bergamo;  but  Venice  was  too  much  for 
us.  We  had  no  such  energy.  Life  was  too 
sweet  for  sight-seeing,  and  we  said,  "If  we  make 
an  expedition,  let  it  be  to-morrow  and  not  to- 
day," and  loafed  and  loafed. 


2i4  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

One  afternoon  we  had  a  very  unexpected 
meeting.  Naomi  and  I  were  in  the  last  room 
in  the  Accademia,  where  Bellini's  Madonna  of  the 
Two  Trees  hangs;  and  who  should  be  already 
there  studying  the  little  gay  series  of  allegories 
but  Mr.  Dabney  of  The  Balance?  He  looked  up 
with  a  face  radiant  with  pleasure  —  not  a  trace 
for  the  moment  of  his  usual  critical  discontent. 

"At  last!"  he  said. 

"Then  you  have  been  expecting  to  find  us?"  I 
asked. 

"I  have  been  to  all  the  hotels,"  he  replied, 
"and  no  one  had  ever  heard  of  you.  I  found  I 
could  snatch  a  fortnight,  and  I  came  right  out 
at  once." 

From  that  time  Mr.  Dabney  was  constantly 
near  us  or  with  us,  and  was  good  company  in  the 
mass,  but  I  found  him  no  particular  addition  on 
such  rambles  as  Naomi  and  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  take  together.  He  had,  however,  not 
been  in  Venice  before,  and  we,  with  our  brief 
familiarity  with  it,  being  in  the  very  agreeable 
position  of  comparatively  oldest  inhabitants, 
found  a  certain  pleasure  in  showing  him  the 
sights. 

In  France  he  would  have  been,  I  think,  a  sad 
bore,  for  there  he  would  have  discovered  so  many 
points  of  superiority  to  the  English:  but  not 
even  so  keen  a  censor  of  his  own  country  and 
countrymen  as  Mr.  Dabney  could  find  aught  in 
Venice,  except  such  forgivable  and  inimitable  ad- 
vantages as  crumbling  and  picturesque  architecture 


WE  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  ADRIATIC     215 

and  clear  skies,  to  hold  up  as  a  model  for  home 
adoption. 

And  so,  although  a  few  walks  with  Naomi  were 
ruined,  I  did  not  think  hardly  of  Mr.  Dabney  or 
suspect  danger,  until  one  evening,  after  he  had 
returned  to  the  city  in  the  last  steamer,  Drusilla 
remarked  that  he  was  evidently  hard  hit. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"By  Naomi,"  she  answered;  and  straightway 
the  soft  languorous  moon  left  the  sky  and  the 
delicate  stars  were  blotted  out.  .  .  . 

Of  course.  .  .  . 

Why  had  I  been  so  blind? 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  I  said  good-night  to 
the  others,  and  again  walked  out.  I  sat  on  the 
quay  and  looked  over  towards  the  mainland, 
and  realised,  as  one  can  realise  only  on  very 
beautiful  nights,  how  empty  life  is  if  it  holds  not 
one's  desire. 

What  was  my  desire? 

Did  I  want  Naomi? 

I  had  never  put  the  question  to  myself  in  so 
many  words;  I  hardly  put  it  now.  But  I  knew, 
as  I  had  known  when  Miss  Gold  made  that 
remark  about  Trist  and  Naomi  just  before  we 
came  away,  that  I  did  not  want  any  one  else  to 
want  her. 

Eternal  dog  in  the  eternal  manger,  that  will 
not  claim  for  itself,  and  equally  dislikes  others  to 
claim! 

I  was  not  a  philanderer:  I  had  hated  philan- 
dering almost  more  than  any  of  the  selfish  vices; 


216  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  was  not  a  coward,  or  at  any  rate  I  was  suffi- 
ciently a  fatalist  to  have  no  fear  of  the  future. 
These  things  I  knew.  What,  then,  was  it  that  I 
suddenly  recognised  was  making  me  loathe  myself 
and  my  kind? 

Could  I  really  be  one  of  those  hesitants  in 
love  who  had  so  puzzled  me,  and  against  whom  I 
had  in  my  perplexity,  my  imperfect  knowledge, 
directed  so  many  a  hard  adjective? 

Strange  how  gradually  one  has  to  come  to  the 
understanding  not  only  of  other  men  but  of 
oneself !  In  a  flash  now  I  realised  their  tragedy 
and  felt  for  them  a  great  sorrow,  none  the  less 
intense  for  its  inclusion  of  myself. 

They  truly  are  food  rather  for  our  sympathy 
than  contempt,  who  have  not  loved  enough  to 
demand,  but  have  loved  too  much  or  have  too 
much  hated  the  thought  of  others  loving,  to 
be  able  to  renounce.  How  that  worm  must 
gnaw! 

There  is  no  end  to  the  subtle  tortures  which 
civilisation  has  devised  and  is  devising,  but  surely 
not  the  least  is  this  modern  hesitancy,  which 
increases  and  will  increase  as  we  become  more 
complex  and  believe  less  in  another  world  and 
therefore  more  in  enjoying  this:  this  terror  lest 
the  step  we  are  taking  should  produce  anything 
less  than  the  maximum  of  happiness.  In  one 
life,  so  short,  to  make  a  false  move,  how  can  one 
bear  to  contemplate  it  ?  —  and  thus  terrified,  we 
make  none  at  all. 

Was  I  like  that?    I  asked  myself,  and  repudiated 


WE  MEET  THE  QUEEN  OF  ADRIATIC     217 

the  charge.  No:  I  was  not  like  that;  nor  must 
I  be. 

I  grew  calmer  as  I  decided  thus,  and  calmer 
still  as  I  realised  that  such  fears,  such  panics, 
were  common  to  those  on  the  brink  of  a  passion. 

As  I  was  ? 

Was  I?  Is  it  possible  to  reach  one's  first 
passion  at  the  age  of  fifty-five?  I  laughed 
aloud  at  the  use  of  such  a  novelist's  word.  But 
one  thing  was  certain,  and  that  was  that  Naomi 
was  the  dearest  companion  I  could  ever  know,  I 
who  had  never  much  wanted  a  companion  at  all 

—  Naomi's    quiet    presence    and    alert    interest, 
Naomi's     serene     face,     Naomi's     atmosphere.     I 
could  not    indeed    think    calmly  of    life  without 
Naomi  at  all. 

And  she?  Had  she  any  such  thoughts  of  me 
as  a  companion?  I  knew  nothing,  less  than 
nothing.  How  should  I  know?  I  had  never 
studied  women.  I  had  got  on  with  them  very 
well;  had  had  a  few  friends  among  them  in  the 
Argentine:  but  always,  I  realised  now,  with  the 
gloves  on.  Naomi  was  my  first  frank  companion 

—  since  Agnes  Gold  those  many  years  ago. 
Agnes   Gold.    What   was   she   thinking,   as   she 

lay  there  on  her  poor  back,  about  Naomi  and 
me?  She  had  mentioned  Trist  as  the  ideal 
husband,  but  it  was  Naomi  and  me  whom  she 
had  invited  to  control  her  affairs. 

That  thought  gave  me  comfort,  and  I  braced 
myself  under  it.  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  turned 
my  back  on  the  soft  stars  and  the  lights  of 


218  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Venice  and  the  pitiless,  lovely,  still  lagoon,  and 
went  to  bed  convinced  of  two  things:  one  being 
that  it  was  fortunate  our  visit  to  this  accursed 
beauty-spot  was  nearly  done,  and  the  other  that 
I  would  do  all  I  could  to  keep  out  of  the  black 
pit  of  melancholia,  for  I  saw  swiftly  down  a  vista 
of  very  dark  possibilities. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MR.  BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK 
SOLACES  ME  WITH  THE  ODD  AND 
HUMANE  HUMOURS  OF  STUARTS 
AND  TUDORS 

JOHN  AUBREY,  whose  Brief  Lives  Mr. 
Bemerton  has  sent  me  with  a  strong 
recommendation,  and  to  whom  I  turned  that 
night,  is  a  man  after  my  own  heart.  He 
had  an  eye  for  character,  if  you  like,  and  his 
interest  in  the  picturesque  foible  was  at  least  as 
great  as  his  interest  in  virtue.  To  read  his  con- 
cise little  summaries  of  Elizabethan  and  Stuart 
personalities  is  to  be  made  free  of  a  most  con- 
versible  company  very  near  real  life. 

He  knows  his  value  as  a  land  of  footpage  to 
the  Muse  of  Biography.  He  admits  it  in  the 
following  passage:  —  "About  1676  or  5,  as  I 
was  walking  through  Newgate-street,  I  sawe 
Dame  Venetia's  bust  standing  at  a  stall  at  the 
Golden  Crosse,  a  brazier's  shop.  I  perfectly 
remembered  it,  but  the  fire  had  gott-off  the 
guilding:  but  taking  notice  of  it  to  one  that  was 

219 


220  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

with  me,  I  could  never  see  it  afterwards  exposed 
to  the  street.  They  melted  it  downe.  How 
these  curiosities  would  be  quite  forgott,  did  not  such 
idle  fellowes  as  I  am  putt  them  downe!"  The 
italics  are  mine. 

Then  again  in  the  following  passage  in  the 
notes  on  John  Hoskyns :  —  "He  lies  buried  under 
an  altar  monument  on  the  north  side  of  the 
choirs  of  Dowre  Abbey  in  Herefordshire.  (In 
this  abbey  church  of  Dowre  are  two  frustums  or 
remaynders  of  mayled  and  crosse-legged  monu- 
ments, one  sayd  to  be  of  a  Lord  Chandois, 
th' other  the  lord  of  Ewy as-lacy.  A  little  before 
I  sawe  them  a  mower  had  taken  one  of  the 
armes  to  whett  his  syth.)"  That  is  the  seeing 
eye. 

All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  provided  they 
had  some  merit  or  station,  appear  in  his  pages, 
just  as  in  my  Chinese  book;  but  Aubrey  kept 
a  special  corner  for  mathematicians  and  merry 
ladies.  His  chief  mathematician  and  perhaps 
greatest  hero  was  Hobbes  of  The  Leviathan;  but 
there  are  many  others.  Here,  for  example,  is  the 
description  of  one:  —  "He  is  of  little  stature, 
perfect;  black  haire,  of  a  delicate  moyst  curie; 
darke  eie,  but  of  great  vivacity  of  spirit.  He  is 
of  a  soft  temper,  of  great  temperance  (amat 
Venerem  aliquantum),  of  a  prodigious  invention, 
and  will  be  acquainted  (familiarly)  with  nobody." 
Who  was  that?  A  thousand  guesses.  I  will 
tell  you.  Do  you  remember  at  the  beginning  of 
atlases  a  map  of  the  world  with  the  hemispheres 


MR.   BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK     221 

flattened  out,  entitled  Mercator's  projection?  Well, 
that  is  a  description  of  Mercator  —  Mr.  Nicholas 
Mercator.  Philip  Melancthon,  says  Aubrey,  was 
Mercator's  great-grandmother's  brother. 

For  the  merrier  ladies,  Aubrey's  own  pages 
must  be  consulted,  since  one  may  no  longer  write 
all  one  would;  but  here  is  his  account  of  the  wife 
of  the  great  Falkland :  —  "  At  length,  when  she 
[Letice  Gary]  could  not  prevaile  on  him  [her  hus- 
band], she  would  say  that,  'I  warrant  you,  for  all 
this,  I  will  obtaine  it  of  my  lord;  it  will  cost  me 
but  the  expence  of  a  few  teares.' " 

Aubrey's  pen  now  and  then  could  etch  almost 
like  Rembrandt.  Here  is  Sir  John  Birkenhead :  — 
"He  was  exceedingly  confident,  witty,  and  very 
grateful  to  his  benefactors,  would  lye  damnably. 
He  was  of  middling  stature,  great  goggli  eies,  not 
of  a  sweet  aspect";  and  Sir  John  Denham's  eye 
is  made  again  to  shine  too,  though  it  has  been  shut 
these  many  years :  —  "  His  eie  was  a  kind  of  light 
goose  grey,  not  big;  but  it  had  a  strange  piercing- 
ness,  not  as  to  shining  and  glory,  but  (like  a 
Thomas)  when  he  conversed  with  you  he  look't 
into  your  very  thoughts."  It  was  Sir  John 
Denham  (author  of  Cooper's  Hill)  who  wrote  to 
King  Charles  n.  begging  for  George  Wither's 
life  to  be  spared,  because  "whilest  G.  W.  lived 
he  (Denham)  should  not  be  the  worst  poet  in 
England." 

Aubrey  indeed  had  a  special  gift  for  the  salient 
trait.  Thus,  of  my  dear  Thomas  Fuller,  of  the 
Worthies,  he  writes:  —  "He  was  of  a  middle 


222  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

stature;  strong  sett;  curled  haire;  a  very  working 
head,  in  so  much  that,  walking  and  meditating 
before  dinner,  he  would  eate-up  a  penny  loafe, 
not  knowing  that  he  did  it."  That  tells  more 
than  chapters  might. 

Whether  or  not  Aubrey  told  the  truth,  we  shall, 
I  suppose,  never  know,  but  he  reads  like  fact. 
One  sees,  at  any  rate,  that  he  wanted  the  truth; 
other  things  did  not  interest  him.  His  account 
of  Milton  may  be  taken  as  an  example.  One  did 
not  quite  expect  it,  and  yet  one  believes  it :  — 
"His  harmonicall  and  ingeniose  soul  did  lodge  in 
a  beautifull  and  well-proportioned  body.  .  .  .  He 
had  abroun  hayre.  His  complexion  exceeding 
faire  —  he  was  so  faire  that  they  called  him  the 
lady  of  Christ's  College.  Ovall  face.  His  eie  a 
darke  gray.  He  had  a  delicate  tuneable  voice,  and 
had  good  skill.  His  father  instructed  him.  He 
had  an  organ  in  his  howse;  he  played  on  that 
most.  Of  a  very  cheerfull  humour.  He  would 
be  chearfull  even  in  his  gowte-fitts,  and  sing." 
One  does  not  think  of  the  blind  Milton  as  cheer- 
fully singing;  and  yet  I  believe  it  if  Aubrey 
says  so. 

Milton's  friend,  Andrew  Marvell,  comes  very 
engagingly  out  of  these  pages :  — "  He  was  of 
a  middling  stature,  pretty  strong  sett,  roundish 
faced,  cherry  cheek' t,  hazell  eie,  browne  haire. 
He  was  in  his  conversation  very  modest,  and  of 
very  few  words;  and  though  he  loved  wine  he 
would  never  drinke  hard  in  company,  and  was 
wont  to  say  that  he  would  not  play  the  good  fellow 


MR.   BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK     223 

in  any  man's  company  in  whose  hands  he  would 
not  trust  his  life.  He  kept  bottles  of  wine  at 
his  lodgeing,  and  many  times  he  would  drinke 
liberally  by  himselfe  to  refresh  his  spirits,  and 
exalt  his  muse." 

Aubrey  on  Shakespeare  has  one  very  interest- 
ing detail:  —  "Mr.  William  Shakespear  was  born 
at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  the  county  of  War- 
wick. His  father  was  a  butcher,  and  I  have  been 
told  here  before  by  some  of  the  neighbours,  that 
when  he  was  a  boy  he  exercised  his  father's  trade, 
but  when  he  kill'd  a  calfe  he  would  do  it  in  a 
high  style,  and  make  a  speech.  There  was  at 
that  time  another  butcher's  son  in  this  towne  that 
was  held  not  at  all  inferior  to  him  for  a  naturall 
witt,  his  acquaintance  and  coetanean,  but  dyed 
young."  Now,  the  gods  stand  up  for  butchers; 
but  what  a  thing  it  would  have  been  had  this 
other  lad  grown  up  too,  and  written  plays  too! 
Two  Swans  of  Avon.  For  the  rest,  Shakespeare 
"was  a  handsome,  well-shap't  man;  very  good 
company,  and  of  a  very  readie  and  pleasant 
smooth  witt." 

Between  Francis  Beaumont  and  John  Fletcher, 
says  Aubrey,  "there  was  a  wonderfull  consimility 
of  phansey  which  caused  that  deareness  of  friend- 
ship between  them." 

I  find  that  the  famous  story  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  and  his  son  is  Aubrey's.  The  boy,  who 
was  a  bit  of  a  firebrand  and  by  no  means  hi  the 
paternal  favour,  was  taken  by  his  father,  much 
against  his  will,  to  dine  with  a  great  distinguished 


224  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

company.  "He  sate  next  to  his  father,  and  was 
very  demure  at  least  halfe  dinner-time.  Then 
sayd  he,  '  I,  this  morning,  not  having  the  feare  of 
God  before  my  eies  but  by  the  instigation  of  the 
devill,  went  .  .  .'  Sir  Walter  being  strangely 
surprized  and  putt  out  of  his  countenance  at  so 
great  a  table,  gives  his  son  a  damned  blow  over 
the  face.  His  son,  as  rude  as  he  was,  would 
not  strike  his  father,  but  streches  over  the  face 
of  the  gentleman  that  sate  next  to  him  and 
sayd,  '  Box  about :  'twill  come  to  my  father 
anon.'" 

Of  Nicholas  Hill  there  is  this  good  story,  which 
I  must  remember  to  tell  Miss  Gold:  —  "In  his 
travells  with  his  lord  (I  forget  whether  Italy  or 
Germany,  but  I  think  the  former),  a  poor  man 
begged  him  to  give  him  a  penny.  'A  penny!' 
said  Mr.  Hill,  'what  dost  say  to  ten  pound?' 
'Ah!  ten  pound!'  (said  the  beggar)  'that  would 
make  a  man  happy.'  N.  Hill  gave  him  im- 
mediately 10  li,  and  putt  it  downe  upon  account, 
— '  Item,  to  a  beggar  ten  pounds,  to  make  him 
happy.'  " 

One  of  Aubrey's  friends  —  old  Thomas  Tyndale 
(whom  he  put  into  his  comedy,  The  Country  Revel, 
as  Sir  Eubule  Nestor)  —  reminds  me  of  Mr. 
Dabney.  Tyndale  survived  long  into  the  Stuart 
age  from  that  of  Elizabeth,  and  he  was  for  ever 
looking  fondly  back.  Aubrey  quotes  some  of  his 
lamentations :  —  "Our  gentry  forsooth  in  these 
dayes  are  so  effeminated  that  they  know  not  how 
to  ride  on  horseback.  —  Tho  when  the  gentry 


MR.   BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK     225 

mett,  it  was  not  at  a  poor  blind  sordid  alehouse, 
to  drinke  up  a  barrell  of  drinke  and  lie  drunke 
there  two  or  three  days  together;  fall  together  by 
the  eares.  They  mett  tho  in  the  fields,  well- 
appointed,  with  their  hounds  or  their  hawkes; 
kept  up  good  hospitality;  and  kept  a  good 
retinue,  that  would  venture  that  bloud  and  spirit 
that  filled  their  vaines  which  their  masters'  tables 
nourisht;  kept  their  tenants  in  due  respect  of 
them.  We  had  no  depopulacion  in  those 
dayes. 

"You  see  in  me  the  ruines  of  time.  The  day 
is  almost  at  end  with  me,  and  truly  I  am  glad  of 
it:  I  desire  not  to  live  in  this  corrupt  age.  I 
foresawe  and  foretold  the  late  changes,  and  now 
easily  foresee  what  will  follow  after.  Alas!  O' 
God's  will!  It  was  not  so  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
time:  then  youth  had  respect  to  old  age."  And 
so  forth.  I  suppose  there  have  always  been 
such  deplorers  of  the  present,  from  the  days  of 
Cain. 

I  have  always  had  a  warm  feeling  for  the  author 
of  "The  Farewell  to  the  Fairies,"  certain  lines  of 
which  recur  so  exquisitely  again  and  again,  like 
a  refrain  in  music,  in  Mr.  Kipling's  Puck  of  Pock's 
Hill:  — 

"Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies, 

Good  housewives  now  may  say, 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they; 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  are  wont  to  do, 
Yet  who  of  late  for  cleanliness 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe?" 
Q 


226  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Dan  and  Una  knew  it  all  by  heart: — 

"At  morning  and  at  evening  both, 

You  merry  were  and  glad, 
So  little  care  of  sleep  and  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had. 
When  Tom  came  home  from  labour, 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  went  their  tabor, 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes." 

"Witness  these  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs  which  still  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days, 

On  many  a  grassy  plain, 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later  James,  came  in, 
They  never  dance  on  any  hearth 

As  when  the  time  hath  bin." 

Isn't  it  charming?    Could  it  ever  have  been  done 
better,  before  or  since? 

"By  which  we  note  the  fairies 

Were  of  the  old  profession, 
Their  songs  were  Ave  Mary's, 

Their  dances  a  procession; 
But  now,  alas,  they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas, 
Or  farther  for  religion  fled, 

Or  else  they'd  take  their  ease." 

Of  Bishop  Corbet,  of  Oxford  and  Norwich,  who 
wrote  that  somewhere  shall  we  say  about  the  year 
1612  —  at  about  the  time  that  William  Shakespeare, 
having  finished  his  own  dealings  with  the  fairies, 
settled  down  as  a  gentleman  of  leisure  at  New 
Place,  Stratford-on-Avon,  —  Aubrey  has  much  to 
tell. 

A  bishop  who  will  go  to  the  trouble  of  lamenting 


MR.   BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK      227 

the  loss  of  fairies  at  all  is  something  of  a  rara  avis, 
especially  when  he  admits  their  Romish  tendencies; 
but  to  be  the  only  begetter  of  such  a  story  as 
"Dymchurch  Flit"  (even  at  an  interval  of  three 
hundred  years),  that  is  the  true  road  to  gratitude. 

Witty  bishops  are  always  good  company  —  just 
as  a  joke  in  a  serious  paper  gives  one  more 
pleasure  than  a  joke  in  a  comic  paper.  In  fact, 
so  much  is  this  the  case  that  a  bishop  to  gain  a 
reputation  for  wit  need  not,  as  one  too  often 
blushingly  discovers,  really  be  witty  at  all:  a  very 
thin  imitation  of  the  real  thing  will  suffice.  It  is 
the  same  with  Judges:  laughter  holding  both  its 
sides  (hi  parenthesis)  will  pursue  their  mildest 
faceticE.  Richard  Norwich,  however,  was  a  true 
wit,  although,  as  he  lived  at  a  time  before  biography 
was  much  practised,  we  have  few  enough  of  his 
good  sayings. 

Whatever  happened  we  should  have  the  Bishop's 
verses;  but  had  it  not  been  for  John  Aubrey  we 
should  know  little  of  his  spoken  jests,  some  of 
which  are  very  modern  in  spirit.  Here  is  Aubrey: 
"After  he  was  doctor  of  divinity,  he  sang  ballads 
at  the  Crosse  at  Abi-ngdon.  On  a  market-day  he 
and  some  of  his  comrades  were  at  the  taverne  by 
the  Crosse  (which,  by  the  way,  was  then  the 
finest  in  England:  I  remember  it  when  I  was  a 
freshman:  it  was  admirable  curious  Gothicque 
architecture,  and  fine  figures  hi  the  nitches,  'twas 
one  of  those  built  by  king  ...  for  his  queen). 
The  ballad-singer  complayned  he  had  no  custome 
—  he  could  not  put  off  his  ballads.  The  jolly 


228  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Doctor  puts  off  his  gowne,  and  puts  on  the  ballad- 
singer's  leathern  jacket,  and  being  a  handsome 
man,  and  a  rare  full  voice,  he  presently  vended  a 
great  many. 

"His  conversation  was  extreme  pleasant.  Dr. 
Stubbins  was  one  of  his  cronies;  he  was  jolly 
fat  doctor,  and  a  very  good  housekeeper.  As  Dr. 
Corbet  and  he  were  riding  in  Lob  Lane  in  wet 
weather  ('tis  an  extraordinary  deepe  dirty  lane), 
the  coache  fell,  and  Corbet  said  that  Dr.  S.  was 
up  to  the  elbows  in  mud,  and  he  was  up  to  the 
elbows  in  Stubbins."  Sydney  Smith  might  have 
said  that.  I  know  of  no  better  fat-man  joke, 
industrious  as  the  humorists  have  always  been  on 
that  promising  topic. 

Aubrey  continues:  "A.D.  1628,  he  was  made 
Bishop  of  Oxford;  and  I  have  heard  that  he  had 
an  admirable  grave  and  venerable  aspect.  One 
time  as  he  was  confirming,  the  country  people, 
pressing  in  to  see  the  ceremonie;  said  he,  'Beare  off 
there,  or  I'll  confirm  ye  with  my  staffe!'  Another 
time,  being  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  head  of  a  man 
very  bald,  he  turns  to  his  chaplaine,  and  said, 
'Some  dust,  Lushington,'  to  keepe  his  hand  from 
slipping. 

"There  was  a  man  with  a  great  venerable 
beard;  said  the  Bishop,  'You,  behind  the  beard.'" 
That  is  quite  in  a  modern  comedian's  manner: 
"You,  behind  the  beard!" 

Aubrey  ends  with  this  convivial  memory: 
"His  Chaplaine,  Dr.  Lushington,  was  a  very 
learned  and  ingenious  man,  and  they  loved  one 


MR.  BEMERTON'S  SECOND  BED  BOOK      229 

another.  The  Bishop  would  sometimes  take  the 
key  of  the  wine  cellar,  and  he  and  his  chaplaine 
would  go  and  lock  themselves  in  and  be  merry; 
then  first  he  layes  down  his  episcopal  hood, 
'There  layes  the  doctor';  then  he  puts  off  his 
gowne,  'There  layes  the  bishop';  then  'twas 
'Here's  to  thee,  Corbet';  'Here's  to  thee, 
Lushington !' '  Bishops  and  then  chaplains  are  not 
like  that  now;  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well.  But 
those  were  more  spacious  days.  And,  after  all, 
when  a  chaplain  is  named  Lushington  .  .  . ! 

I  find  one  excellent  and  more  serious  saying  of 
Corbet  recorded  by  another  acquaintance,  for  I 
have  been  looking  into  his  history.  On  a  public 
occasion  —  the  visit  of  King  James  to  Cambridge 
in  1614-5,  *ne  Bishop,  who  was  present,  was  much 
beset  by  his  companions  to  indulge  his  satirical 
vein,  for  the  employment  of  which  there  was  no 
lack  of  material.  But  he  refrained,  saying  that 
"he  had  left  his  malice  and  judgment  at  home, 
and  came  there  only  to  commend." 

Next  to  the  Farewell,  the  Bishop's  prettiest 
verses  are  to  his  son  Vincent,  on  his  third  birth- 
day:— 

"I  wish  thee,  Vin,  before  all  wealth, 
Both  bodily  and  ghostly  health: 
Nor  too  much  wealth,  nor  wit,  come  to  thee; 
So  much  of  either  may  undo  thee. 
I  wish  thee  learning,  not  for  show, 
Enough  for  to  instruct,  and  know; 
Not  such  as  gentlemen  require, 
To  prate  at  table,  or  at  fire. 
I  wish  thee  all  thy  mother's  graces, 
Thy  father's  fortunes,  and  his  places. 


23o  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

I  wish  thee  friends,  and  one  at  court, 
Not  to  build  on,  but  support; 
To  keep  thee,  not  in  doing  many 
Oppressions,  but  from  suffering  any. 
I  wish  thee  peace  in  all  thy  ways, 
Nor  lazy  not  contentious  days; 
And  when  thy  soul  and  body  part, 
As  innocent  as  now  thou  art. " 

How  many  a  wish  in  verses  to  a  child  has  been 
falsified  in  this  sad  world !  Poor  little  Vincent 
Corbet  grew  into  a  wastrel,  and  after  his  father's 
death  was  to  be  seen  begging  in  the  streets  of 
London.  The  Bishop  was  perhaps  a  wiser  man 
than  parent.  Many  wits  are.  He  died  in  1635; 
his  last  words  were,  "Good  night,  Lushington." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MISS  AZURE  VERITY  AND  MR.  DABNEY 
OF  THE  BALANCE  CONTINUE  TO 
KEEP  MY  MIND  TO  A  SINGLE 
SUBJECT 

I  RATHER  liked  my  own  rooms  once,  but 
Miss  Verity's  have  made  me  discontented. 
What  is  the  secret  of  femininity?  Can  it  be 
reduced  to  a  word?  Not  by  me.  But  a  literary 
exquisite  —  a  Flaubert  or  a  Maupassant  —  in  search 
of  it  might  do  worse  than  await  inspiration  at 
Azure's  flat. 

She  reads  everything  that  she  ought,  and  by 
some  subtle  influence  compels  publishers  to  bind 
attractively  everything  that  she  ought  to  read. 
If  I  buy  a  new  book  it  is  as  likely  as  not  dingy 
in  hue;  but  if  Azure  buys  one  it  is  like  herself, 
winning  and  gay.  Her  shelves  smile.  She  likes 
little  books,  and  has  a  dozen  little  table-stands 
for  them. 

Her  flowers  are  perfection  —  just  a  few  in  each 
glass.  On  the  larger  table  is  a  dwarf  Japanese 
tree  spreading  its  gnarled  and  venerable  branches 
for  a  Liliputian  smithy  to  shelter  beneath;  it  is 

231 


232  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old.  On  the  walls  are  a 
few  coloured  wood  blocks,  a  water  colour  or  so, 
a  Japanese  print  here  and  there,  and  the  mask  of 
the  dead  girl  from  the  Morgue. 

Azure  was  not  there  when  I  entered.  The 
cleverest  women  are  not.  Having  given  me  time 
to  look  round  and  catch  the  note,  she  came  in, 
or  at  least  suddenly  she  was  in  the  room.  Had 
I  been  blind  and  deaf  I  should  have  known  it. 
She  has  a  presence:  she  vibrates. 

Sancho  Panza  the  wise,  who,  it  is  on  record, 
liked  a  man  to  be  a  man  and  a  woman  a 
woman,  would  have  liked  Azure  Verity;  but  he 
would  have  marvelled  too  at  the  fine  flower 
that  civilisation  has  produced.  For  art  has 
gone  to  her  making  as  much  as  nature.  Indeed, 
it  is  not  the  natural  woman  that  she  makes 
one  think  of,  but  this  other  and  more  formidable 
creation,  the  woman  evolved  from  luxurious  modern 
conditions:  the  woman  who  sets  Greenlanders 
hunting  rare  arctic  creatures  that  she  may  be 
warm,  and  brown  peasants  toiling  in  the  vine- 
yards about  Rheims  that  she  may  drink  bubbling 
wine  and  be  gay,  and  chemists  distilling  perfumes 
from  flowers  that  she  may  exhale  fragrance,  and 
Persian  divers  plunging  for  pearls  that  she  may 
emphasise  the  beauty  of  her  neck. 

But  Azure,  though  her  salary  and  her  wealthy 
spoiling  friends  can  bring  all  those  luxuries  to  her 
slender  white  hand,  is  in  no  way  the  victim  of 
them.  She  accepts  them  naturally,  but  she  keeps 
herself  simple  too  —  impulsive  and  ardent  in  her 


MISS  VERITY  AND  MR.   DABNEY        233 

sympathies,  very  generous,  and  so  ready  for  an 
adventure  that  she  would  be  prepared  to  go  through 
with  it  entirely  on  bread  and  cheese. 

"Now,"  she  said,  after  tea  had  been  taken 
away  and  the  room  had  gained  the  composure 
necessary  for  more  intimate  talk,  "now  teli  me 
about  your  Naomi." 

"What  am  I  to  say?"  I  replied. 

"She  is  very  attractive,"  said  Azure. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  I  said  diffidently.  (I 
certainly  think  so,  but  I  was  not  particularly 
anxious  to  hear  others  say  so  too.) 

"Why  isn't  she  married?"  was  Azure's  next 
question. 

"She  has  not  been  asked,  I  suppose,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  no  one  has  pro- 
posed to  her?  It's  not  conceivable." 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  I  said. 

"How  absurd!"  she  answered  reflectively. 
"There  is  a  girl  born  to  be  a  wife,  and  no  one 
has  the  sense.  .  .  .  While  I  ..."  she  broke  off. 

"Naturally,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  are  we  to  do?" 

"Do?" 

"Yes,  how  are  we  to  get  her  married?" 

"But  why?"  I  said  as  bravely  as  I  could. 

"Why?  Because  she  is  far  too  sweet  and  too 
sensible  to  die  an  old  maid." 

"She  is  very  happy,"  I  said. 

"Relatively  happy,  perhaps." 

"Are  you  so  convinced  that  every  one  should 
marry?" 


234  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"Oh  no,  not  every  one;  but  certainly  Miss 
Wynne." 

"But  you  don't  know  her!"  I  said. 

"Know  her!  Of  course  I  do.  I  saw  her  at 
the  theatre." 

"Only  for  a  moment." 

"Well,  that's  the  way  to  see  people.  I  never 
need  to  see  any  one  twice  to  know  them.  My 
first  impressions  are  always  right.  Sometimes  I 
go  back  on  my  first  impressions,  but  it  is  always 
a  mistake  to  do  so." 

"And  looking  at  her  like  that,  you  saw  that 
she  wanted  to  marry?" 

"Certainly.  It  is  fearfully  plain  to  any  one  but 
a  selfish  uncle.  What  a  pity,"  she  added  after  a 
pause,  "that  you  are  her  uncle." 

My  heart  beat  horribly.  "But  I'm  not,"  I 
said. 

"Not  her  uncle?"  said  Azure.  "I  thought 
you  were.  What  are  you  then?" 

I  told  her  that  Mrs.  Wynne  was  my  step-sister. 

She  said  nothing  for  quite  a  long  while,  and 
I  tried  to  think  of  something  entirely  different  to 
say,  but  could  not. 

All  I  could  say  was,  "To  change  the  subject  a 
little,  how  is  it  that  you,  with  such  belief  in 
marriage  ..." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  marrying  woman,"  she  said. 
"I  have  no  courage  to  face  a  loss  of  liberty.  I 
must  be  my  own  mistress." 

"As  you  would  always  be,"  I  said. 

"I  daren't  risk  it,"  she  replied. 


MISS  VERITY  AND  MR.  DABNEY        235 

"And  yet,  ..."  I  said. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  have  been 
engaged,  and  I  let  myself  be  run  after.  It's  quite 
true,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  get  so  fond  of  them, 
and  they  are  so  nice  to  me;  but  they  will  spoil  it 
all.  It's  all  rubbish  to  say  that  marriages  are 
made  in  heaven;  they're  not.  It  is  courtship 
that  is  made  in  heaven.  The  dreadful  thing 
about  marriage  to  me  is  that  it  means  the  end 
of  the  engagement.  The  engagement  is  so 
beautiful:  people  are  so  kind  to  such,  so  under- 
standing and  sympathetic  and  generous  and 
patient.  And  then  they  marry  and  everything  is 
over." 

"And  yet  you  want  Naomi  to  marry." 

"Oh,  Naomi  is  different.  Naomi  is  a  born  wife; 
I  am  a  born  fiancte.  Naomi  would  not  see  half 
the  things  I  did.  Naomi  would  love  her  husband 
all  the  more  because  he  was  ill;  I  should  hate 
him.  Naomi  would  love  to  have  babies;  I  should 
be  terrified  and  ashamed." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  a  bad  citizen,"  I  said. 

"Very,"  she  replied;  "but  I  have  the  honesty 
to  admit  it;  and  I  spend  a  lot  of  time  trying  to 
get  good  citizenship  into  others."  She  smiled 
with  adorable  mischief. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "here  we  have  been  talking 
for  an  hour,  and  what  have  we  done?  You 
invited  me  to  come  and  tell  you  about  Venice, 
and  I  have  not  mentioned  the  place;  nor  have 
you  asked  me  to.  All  we  have  talked  about  is 
other  persons'  lives." 


236  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"Well,"  she  retorted,  "and  what  did  you  ex- 
pect? Aren't  we  in  London?  That  is  the  only 
subject  here.  No  matter  how  a  conversation 
between  a  man  and  woman  begins,  it  is  bound, 
sooner  or  later,  to  reach  some  one  else's  domestic 
complications.  As  for  me,  I  love  it.  One  may 
talk  books  and  plays  and  pictures  and  travel  now 
and  then,  but  the  only  real  interest  is  other  people 
—  their  hearts  or  their  want  of  heart,  their  follies 
and  their  pockets." 

"Much  better,"  I  replied,  "have  some  interest 
in  your  own  heart." 

"Not  I,"  she  answered  firmly.  "That  would 
be  too  serious." 

On  the  doorstep  whom  should  I  meet  but 
Mr.  Dollie  Heathcote,  a  picture  of  cool  tailoring, 
carrying  a  bouquet.  For  the  first  time  in  our  ac- 
quaintance, his  expression  of  perfect  contentment 
and  serenity  was  dimmed  by  a  passing  cloud. 

"What  ho!"  he  said. 

"What  ho!"  I  replied.  "I  thought  you  were 
at  Cromer." 

"You  would  not  have  me  remain  idle  and 
frivolous  on  the  East  Coast,"  he  said,  "while 
the  funeral  of  my  aunt  is  in  progress  in  the 
metropolis?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  answered. 

He  still  looked  the  least  bit  abashed. 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said,  perceiving  his  thought, 
"I  shan't  mention  it.  For  some  time  now  I  have 
entirely  given  up  the  habit  of  remembering  that 
I  ever  saw  any  one  anywhere." 


MISS  VERITY  AND  MR.  DABNEY        237 

He  laughed  quite  comfortably  again. 

"Pip,  pip!"  he  said,  and  disappeared  up  the 
stairs. 

So  Dollie  was  among  the  suitors!  A  very 
good  thing,  too. 

I  walked  home  rather  thoughtfully  by  way  of 
the  Green  Park  and  St.  James's  Park.  It  was 
a  golden  afternoon,  and  there  were  many  lovers, 
and  their  happiness  made  me  happy  and  made 
me  sad.  What  would  have  been  the  result,  I 
wondered,  if  steady  happiness  had  been  set  on 
the  throne  of  this  world  instead  of  uncertainty 
and  change  and  disappointment?  How  would 
life  have  developed  had  we  been  born  happy 
and  well,  and  lived  happily,  and  loved  happily, 
and  then,  when  our  days  were  fulfilled,  had 
suddenly  died  happily? 

Would  it  have  harmed  the  race?  Have  mis- 
fortune and  disease  and  frustration  and  insecurity 
been  necessary  to  man's  ingenuity  and  industry? 
Without  sorrow  should  we  have  had  no  telegraph? 
without  tears,  no  camera?  Have  all  the  benefits 
of  civilisation  been  wrung  from  us  in  some  effort 
to  escape  from  the  blows  of  fate?  And  even  if 
so,  might  not  happiness,  without  the  advantages 
of  progress,  have  still  been  better? 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  and  watched  the  birds 
for  a  long  while.  They  too  had  been  in  love, 
and  would  be  again  next  spring,  most  of  them, 
and  it  was  just  as  real  to  them  as  to  the  youths 
and  maidens  on  the  seats  and  in  the  boats,  and  — 
to  me? 


238  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Tome. 

I  walked  home  in  a  brown  study. 

Azure  Verity  had  sufficiently  disturbed  my 
mind,  but  I  was  destined  to  receive  a  worse 
shock  before  the  day  closed.  I  dined  at  Queen 
Anne's  Gate,  and  we  had  a  very  amusing  evening, 
trying  over  a  number  of  folk-songs  from  Somer- 
set, which  the  morris-dancers  are  making  popular. 
I  left  at  about  eleven,  and  Alderley  said  he  would 
walk  with  me  as  he  had  something  to  tell  me. 

Briefly  it  was  that  Mr.  Dabney  had  asked  if 
he  might  pay  his  addresses  to  Naomi.  He  would 
not,  he  said,  say  anything  to  her  until  he  had 
the  parents'  permission;  which  is  punctilious  of 
him  if  not  romantic.  I  think,  however,  I  see  his 
point  of  view,  which  is  that,  being  practically  a 
Republican  at  heart,  and  certainly  rather  anti- 
English,  he  might  be  too  repugnant  a  son-in-law 
for  a  public  man  like  Mr.  Wynne  to  consider, 
and  it  was  therefore  only  honest  to  begin  by 
giving  the  father  the  chance  of  refusal. 

Alderley,  however,  has  no  such  objection  to 
him;  the  objection  comes  from  Naomi  herself, 
who  informed  her  father  that  she  could  never 
love  Mr.  Dabney  and  so  settled  the  matter  at 
once.  And  since  one  cannot  think  of  him  as 
precisely  the  build  of  a  blighted  and  suicidal  lover, 
the  matter  ends. 

But  why  should  my  heart  again  stand  still  as 
Alderley  told  me  about  it? 


V 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WITH  MR.  BEMERTON'S  ASSISTANCE  I 
TAKE  REFUGE  AMID  A  GALLANT 
COMPANY  OF  SEA  DOGS 

MR.  BEMERTON  again  stood  my  very  good 
friend,  for  he  had  sent  up  during  the  day 
a  book  which  he  thought  would  do  something 
for  my  thirst  for  character;  and  indeed  it  did. 
It  was  a  recent  volume  of  the  Navy  Records 
Society  —  a  full-blooded  work  entitled  by  its  editor 
Recollections  by  James  Anthony  Gardner,  but  by 
this  same  Gardner,  an  officer  in  Nelson's  day, 
Naval  Recollections  in  Shreds  and  Patches,  with 
Strange  Reflections  above  and  under  Hatches. 

Being  old  enough  to  remember  very  vividly 
the  shock  that  followed  after  that  other  James 
Anthony's  rending  of  the  Cheyne  Row  veil,  I 
was  not  unwilling  to  get  a  new  connotation  for 
those  two  Christian  names.  And  certainly  James 
Anthony  Gardner  is  a  find. 

He  was  born  in  1770,  in  what  he  thought  the 
best  of  all  lands  —  Ireland ;  and  he  came  home 
from  the  sea  in  1802,  but  he  did  not  take  his  pen 

239 


240  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

in  hand  until  1836,  during  which  time  his  memory 
had  purged  itself  of  inessentials.  He  wrote  them 
not  for  the  cold  eye  of  a  publisher's  reader  but 
(like  a  gentleman)  for  his  own  family's  entertain- 
ment. The  result  is  a  narrative  of  extraordinary 
directness,  full  of  careless  human  qualities,  naked 
and  unashamed,  and  some  pretty  exercises  in 
objurgation,  prefaced  by  the  following  ingenious 
verses : — 

"I  know  nothing  of  grammar; 
At  school  they  never  could  hammer 

Or  beat  it  into  my  head. 
The  bare  word  made  me  stammer, 
And  turn  pale  as  if  I  were  dead. 
But  here  I  may  as  well  be  telling, 
I'm  often  damned  out  in  my  spelling. 
And  this  is  all  the  apology 
I  offer  for  my  chronology 
And  biographical  sketches 
Of  mighty  men  and  lubberly  wretches, 
From  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-seven, 
Their  rank,  their  titles,  and  their  names  all  given." 

The  last  line  contains  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  the  truth,  for  Gardner,  although  so  many 
years  had  passed,  and  he  had  served  in  as  many 
as  twelve  vessels,  as  midshipman,  master's  mate, 
and  lieutenant,  remembered  every  man,  and  when 
the  time  came  for  appraisement  was  all  ready 
with  his  summary.  It  is  these  summaries,  so 
vivid  and  searching  and  kindly  and  understanding, 
to  which  it  interests  me  to  draw  attention:  for 
such  things  are  new  to  me,  and  may  be  new 
to  others;  by  their  vigour  and  candour  they  take 


A  GALLANT  COMPANY  OF  SEA  DOGS     241 

their  place  with  more  ambitious  anthropological 
efforts. 

For  swift  and  vivid  summary  it  would  be  hard 
to  beat  some  of  the  following  entries  in  Gardner's 
book  of  memory :  — 

Charles  Buchan,  purser.     Dead.     A  most  worthy  gentleman. 

Jack  Swanson,  gunner.  Dead.  A  very  good  man  but  had  a 
very  bad  wife. 

Thomas  Floyd,  third  lieutenant.     Dead.     A  dandy. 

W.  Colt,  midshipman.  Dead.  A  very  good  fellow.  We  used 
to  call  him  "Old  Owl." 

George  Rule  Bluet,  midshipman.  Dead.  A  good-natured 
fellow,  with  good  abilities,  but  drank  hard.  I  recollect  being 
of  a  party  at  Gosport  when  Bluet  wanted  to  make  love  to  a  young 
lady,  but  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  At  last  he  took  out  of 
his  pocket  a  plan  of  the  Edgar's  hold,  which  he  begged  her  to 
accept,  and  hoped  she  would  keep  it  for  his  sake. 

Sol  Saradine.     Dead.     A  droll,  wicked  fellow. 

How  Stevenson  and  Henley  would  have  rejoiced 
in  this  name!  Sol  Saradine.  It  breathes  piracy 
and  lawlessness. 

Ben  Forester,  captain  of  marines.  Dead.  As  brave  and 
generous  a  soul  as  ever  lived,  but  thoughtless  and  died  un- 
fortunate. 

—  Cook,  Carpenter.     Dead.     A  good  man;    no  dandy. 

Edward  Forster,  midshipman.  Dead.  Herculean  Irishman; 
a  terror  to  the  dockyard  maties. 

Thomas  Watson,  midshipman.  Dead.  A  glorious  noisy 
fellow. 

Is  not  that  an  epitaph  indeed,  one  to  be  proud 
of?  I  wish  I  was  a  glorious  noisy  fellow. 

Joseph  Loring,  third  lieutenant.  Dead.  A  good  sailor,  very 
passionate,  and  swore  like  the  devil. 

The  Parson  (I  forget  his  name).  Dead.  Had  no  dislike  to 
gr°g- 

R 


242  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Edward  Dowdall,  gunner.  Dead.  Lethargic;  always  dozing 
in  the  forecastle ;  a  sleepy,  good  man. 

John  Sandford,  midshipman.  Dead.  A  member  of  the  Hell- 
Fire  Club;  a  dandy,  and  a  droll  fellow. 

Thomas  James  Skerret,  midshipman.  This  fellow  wanted  to  be 
a  tyrant,  but  was  too  great  a  fool. 

Robert  Manning,  midshipman.  Dead.  Bob  was  a  good 
fellow. 

Henry  Batt,  midshipman.  Dead.  An  old  schoolfellow  of 
mine.  Harry  was  passionately  fond  of  grog,  which  made  him  an 
ungrateful  return  by  taking  him  out  of  this  world  before  it  was 
agreeable.  Nicknamed  "Ram,"  "Cat,"  "Batt,"  and  "Rammon 
the  Butcher." 

Alexander  Proctor,  surgeon's  assistant.     Proud  as  the  devil. 

Hugh  Land,  clerk.     A  clever  little  pedant. 

William  Nowel,  second  lieutenant.  Dead.  Gloomy  and  fiery, 
but  a  good  officer  and  gentleman. 

John  Irwin,  fourth  lieutenant.  Dead.  A  very  good  fellow, 
always  smiling. 

John  Roskruge,  master.  Dead.  A  very  good  man,  one  that 
was  better  acquainted  with  rope-yarns  and  bilge-water  than  with 
Homer  or  Virgil.  He  said  a  man's  ideas  should  go  no  further  than 
the  jib-boom  end. 

John  Tursides,  midshipman.     A  droll  old  guardo. 

Henry  Foularton,  midshipman.  Dead.  Very  religious,  and 
remarkably  neat  in  his  dress:  but  at  last  drank  very  hard,  and 
died  regretting  that  a  keg  of  gin  (alongside  of  him)  should  see  him 
out,  which  was  really  the  case. 

Billy  Culmer,  mate.     Dead.     Everyone  has  heard  of  Billy. 

Thomas  H.  Tidy,  midshipman.     Dead.     Poor  Tom. 

John  Nazer,  mate.     A  very  good  and  very  ugly  fellow. 

Peter  M'Kinnon,  gunner.  A  good  sailor,  but  used  to  damn  his 
poor  eyes  so. 

I  could  go  on  indefinitely  thus,  calling  forth 
from  their  graves  these  hard-bitten  sea  dogs; 
but  that  is  enough.  It  is  literature  in  its  way, 
is  it  not? 

Are  there  the  same  or  kindred  characters  in 
the  Navy  to-day,  one  wonders.  Let  us  hope  so. 


A  GALLANT  COMPANY  OF  SEA  DOGS     243 

But  as  time  goes  on  and  sophistication  spreads, 
the  outstanding  eccentricities  are  apt  to  decrease; 
there  is  a  general  planing  down  of  the  harder 
knots.  Gardner's  book,  however,  is  in  the  main 
narrative.  It  is  only  at  the  end  of  the  chapters 
that  he  prints  these  critical  lists.  Many  of  his 
old  messmates  come  in  for  more  detailed  descrip- 
tion—  Mr.  Stack,  for  example.  Mr.  Stack  was 
"cursed  surly  and  disagreeable,  but  I  believe 
meant  well.  .  .  .  When  in  good  temper  (which 
was  seldom)  he  would  say  'my  son'  when  he 
addressed  any  of  us;  but  generally  Til  split  your 
ear.'" 

Mr.  Stack  had  no  richness;  he  was  simply  a 
testy  officer;  not  like  Mr.  Quinton,  with  whom 
grog  agreed  so  happily  (among  other  things, 
"making  his  flesh  firm")  that  he  took  twenty- 
six  tumblers  of  good  Hollands  and  water  a  day. 
"I  must  in  justice  declare,  however,"  adds 
Gardner,  "that  Mr.  Quinton  was  no  drunkard; 
I  never  saw  him  disguised  with  liquor."  On  the 
same  ship,  the  Orestes,  was  Mr.  Stevens.  When 
Sir  Roger  Curtis  came  to  inspect  the  vessel  Mr. 
Stevens  was  the  first  to  go  aloft,  and  was  heartily 
commended  by  Sir  Roger  for  his  activity. 
"You're  a  fine  fellow,  Mr.  Stevens,"  he  called 
up,  "a  most  active  officer,  Mr.  Stevens;  you  are 
a  wonder,  Mr.  Stevens."  But  Sir  Roger  spoke 
too  soon,  for  Mr.  Stevens  was  in  reality  a  slacker, 
and  was  the  last  left  on  the  yard.  Sir  Roger 
soon  put  things  right.  "I  recall  all  my  compli- 
ments, Mr.  Stevens,"  he  bawled;  "you're  a  damned 


244  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

lubber,  Mr.   Stevens;    a  blockhead,  Mr.   Stevens; 
come  down,  Mr.  Stevens." 

Lieutenant  Morgan  deserves  to  be  better 
known,  for  he  accepted  one  of  man's  little 
difficulties  with  fortitude  and  humour.  One  day 
a  midshipman  named  Millar  joined  the  ship, 
and  Morgan,  giving  him  a  quick  glance,  sprang 
towards  him  and  asked  him  to  dine  that  evening. 
Millar  was  bewildered,  for  he  had  never  seen 
Morgan  before,  but  he  accepted.  When  dinner 
was  over  Morgan  declared  that  he  was  under  a 
great  obligation  to  his  guest,  and  should  at  all 
times  be  happy  to  acknowledge  it.  Poor  Millar 
was  quite  at  a  loss.  "Well  then,"  said  Morgan, 
"I'll  tell  you.  It  is  this.  I  was  considered  the 
ugliest  son  of  a  bitch  in  the  fleet  until  you  came 
on  board,  but  you  beat  me  dead  hollow;  and 
surely  you  can't  wonder  at  my  being  sensible  of 
the  obligation."  Millar  took  it  well,  and  all  was 
harmony.  Three  months  later,  who  should  join 
the  ship  but  MacBride.  No  sooner  had  he 
stepped  on  board  than  Millar  was  sent  for  by  his 
first  lieutenant.  "Millar,"  he  said,  "you  are  a 
happy  dog  for  being  relieved  so  soon.  I  was  the 
ugliest  son  of  a  bitch  in  the  whole  fleet  for 
fully  a  year  before  you  relieved  me;  and  here 
are  you  relieved  in  only  three  months,  for  there 
stands  one"  —  pointing  to  MacBride  —  "that 
beggars  all  description,  and  if  they  were  to  rake 
hell  they  could  not  find  his  fellow."  Then, 
going  up  to  MacBride,  he  shook  his  hand  and 
asked  him  to  dine  that  evening  with  himself  and 


A  GALLANT  COMPANY  OF  SEA  DOGS      245 

Millar,  "to  celebrate  the  happy  event."  That 
seems  to  me  to  be  something  very  like  the  best 
philosophy. 

These  reminiscences  prepare  the  reader  to  find 
that  Gardner  and  his  friends,  when  in  Pisa  for  a 
night  or  so  during  the  carnival,  were  not  precisely 
a  band  of  reverent  Ruskinites.  "One  of  our 
midshipmen  pelted  Lord  Hervey  in  his  coach, 
and  when  told  it  was  the  British  ambassador, 
and  that  he  looked  very  angry,  immediately  hove 
another  volley  at  Lady  Hervey,  observing  that 
she  looked  better  tempered  than  his  Excellency." 
Returning  to  Leghorn,  they  had  a  strong  party  of 
English  officers  to  dinner,  which  was  completed 
by  rolling  a  waiter  in  the  table-cloth  along  with 
the  plates  and  dishes.  A  midshipman  then  took 
a  loaf  and  let  it  fall  from  the  second-floor  window 
upon  the  jaw  of  an  Italian  in  the  street;  which 
floored  him.  No  one,  however,  minded.  "Would 
this,"  asks  Gardner,  "  have  been  the  case  in  England, 
where  every  hole  and  corner  has  a  board  threaten- 
ing prosecution,  and  if  you  pass  two  or  three 
stopping  in  the  street,  their  conversation  will  be 
about  law,  hanging,  or  trade?" 

Gardner's  last  ship  was  the  Brunswick,  on 
which  one  Rea  was  captain  of  marines.  "Rea," 
says  Gardner,  "although  a  very  worthy  fellow,  had 
a  great  antipathy  to  the  West  Indies,  and  was 
always  cursing  Venables  and  Perm  for  taking 
possession  of  Jamaica,  and  was  sorry  Oliver 
Cromwell  did  not  make  them  a  head  shorter 
for  their  pains.  I  have  often  heard  him  repeat 


246  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

the  following  lines  as  a  morning  and  evening 
hymn :  — 

'"Venables  and  Perm, 
Two  bloody-minded  men, 
In  an  evil  hour 
Those  seas  did  explore, 
And,  blundering  about, 
This  cursed  hole  found  out; 
And  for  so  doing 
The  devil  has  them  stewing; 
And  with  him  they  may  remain 
Till  we  come  this  way  again, 
Which  we  think,  howsomdever, 
(As  our  boatswain  says)  will  be  never, 
And  let  all  the  men  say  Amen.'" 

On  one  glad  morning,  however,  news  at  last 
came  that  peace  was  declared  and  the  Brunswick 
was  to  return  home  and  its  crew  paid  off.  The 
master  brought  the  glad  tidings,  thundering  at 
Gardner's  door  at  five  in  the  morning,  and  singing 
this  lusty  song :  — 

'"Jolly  tars,  have  you  heard  the  news? 

There's  peace  both  by  land  and  by  sea; 
Great  guns  are  no  more  to  be  used, 
Disbanded  we  all  are  to  be.' 

'Oh,'  says  the  admiral,  'the  wars  are  all  over.' 
Says  the  captain,  'My  heart  it  will  break.' 

'Oh,'  says  the  bloody  first  lieutenant, 
'What  course  of  life  shall  I  take?'" 

But  the  news  was  false,  and  the  Brunswick  was 
sent  back  to  Jamaica  again,  and  so  dispirited  was 
he  that  Gardner  then  left  the  sea  for  ever. 

It  is  our  gain  that  he  carried  away  from  it  a 
marvellous  memory.  But  I  think  he  knew  he 


A  GALLANT  COMPANY  OF  SEA  DOGS     247 

had  made  a  mistake  in  leaving,  for  there  is  much 
wistfulness  between  the  lines  of  his  story.  In 
one  place  he  writes:  "We  used  to  fit  a  tarpaulin 
in  the  weather  fore-rigging  as  a  screen,  and  many 
a  pleasant  hour  have  I  passed  under  its  lee,  with 
a  glass  of  grog,  and  hearing  long-winded  stories. 
Alas !  how  dead  are  times  now." 

Is  not  that  one  of  the  themes  the  plaintive 
melody  of  which  runs  through  most  middle-aged 
and  older  lives:  "Alas!  how  dead  are  times 
now?"  This  is  my  comment,  not  the  brave 
Gardner's. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  AND 
HAVE  THE  BEST  OPPORTUNITY  FOR 
CONTRASTING  THE  GRAVE  AND 
GAY 

T  IFE  has  just  been  varied  by  two  wed- 
J — '  dings  —  two :  one  serious  and  the  other 
most  distinctly  the  reverse.  I  attended  both. 

The  first  wedding  was  that  of  Alf  Pinto  and 
Bonnie  Birdie  Twist;  the  second  —  but  let  us 
take  them  in  order. 

Bonnie  Birdie  Twist,  as  her  name  may  suggest, 
is  in  the  profession  too,  a  sprightly  lady  vocalist 
with  a  high  kick  and  a  wink  of  such  calibre  that 
it  can  carry  with  deadly  effect  to  the  uttermost 
standing-room. 

She  has  not  long  entered  her  kingdom,  but  is 
firmly  established  there  now,  hardly  less  pro- 
fitably than  Alf  himself.  Her  particular  line  of 
song  is  the  confidential,  involving  responses  from 
an  audience  only  too  ready  to  oblige,  her  latest 
success  being  entitled,  "Is  there  room  in  your 
lap  for  me?"  —  a  question  that  produces  in  every 
248 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS          249 

Hall  where  she  sings  an  Everlasting  Yea  that  lifts 
the  roof. 

Such  a  lady  would  hardly  have  an  ordinary 
wedding;  and  the  ceremony  to  which  I  was 
invited  by  Mrs.  Duckie,  and  from  which  I  felt 
I  could  not  abstain  without  hurting  that  good 
woman's  feelings,  was  as  far  removed  from  the 
ordinary  as  a  naphtha  lamp  is  removed  from  an 
altar  candle. 

The  wedding  was  I  can  hardly  say  solemnised 
but  achieved  under  difficulty  by  a  patient  and 
tenacious  Islington  Registrar  in  the  Maltravers 
Assembly  Rooms,  which  had  been  taken  for  the 
occasion  by  Birdie's  father.  That  gentleman, 
who  is  now  a  thriving  publican  and  a  very 
assiduous  racing  man,  was  once  a  heavy-weight 
champion  boxer,  while  Mrs.  Twist,  whose  plush 
gown  sent  the  thermometer  up  five  degrees,  had 
her  triumphs  years  ago  as  Polly  Pearl  the  Coster 
Queen. 

The  Assembly  Rooms  were  crowded  with 
warm-hearted  professionals  in  every  kind  of 
clothes  but  the  expected,  and  jovial  bookmakers 
and  licensed  victuallers  —  all  accompanied  by 
their  ladies,  and  all  very  gay  from  the 
moment  they  arrived,  and  gayer  still  as  the 
day  advanced,  and  the  ceremony  became 
more  vivacious,  and  the  ex-bruiser's  generous 
flow  of  wine  got  to  work,  and  appropriate 
excerpts  from  Alf  and  Birdie's  repertoires  rose 
in  chorus:  so  appropriate  indeed,  that  it  seemed 
as  if  they  had  been  singing  all  their  lives 


250  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

only  by  way  of  preparation  for  this  exuberant 
festival. 

Birdie's  bridesmaids  were  her  own  sisters,  both 
of  whom  are  budding  soubrettes,  and  four  other 
friends  with  yellow  hair.  Be-trice  had  been 
implored  by  Alf  to  serve  too,  but  she  declined, 
partly  on  an  impulse  of  natural  prudence  and 
partly  because  the  legitimate  drama,  to  which 
she  is  affiliated,  must  not  be  too  friendly  with  the 
variety  stage. 

Alf's  best  men  were  a  pair  of  famous  knock- 
abouts who  took  their  duties  very  seriously,  and, 
to  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the  father-in-law, 
insisted  on  treating  Alf  as  a  boxer  in  need  of 
minute  and  exhaustive  seconding.  They  fanned 
him  with  red  handkerchiefs  as  he  sat  back  in  a 
state  of  hilarious  exhaustion,  and  every  one  else 
within  reach  offered  him  refreshments  from  a 
black  bottle,  and  generally  and  genially  did  all 
they  could  to  relieve  matrimony  from  the  stigma 
of  holiness. 

The  Registrar  at  first  seemed  a  little  scandalised, 
but  after  a  while  he  resigned  himself  to  the  tide 
of  facetiousness  and  was  carried  along  upon  its 
bosom  as  buoyantly  as  any. 

The  only  uncomfortable  people  there  were 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Duckie  and  myself:  but  it  was 
easy  for  me,  being  a  mere  spectator,  to  retire  into 
the  background,  whereas  they,  simple,  affectionate 
creatures,  were  perforce  in  the  very  forefront  of 
the  battle. 

Poor    Mrs.    Duckie    was,    I    fear,    more    than 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  251 

uncomfortable,  she  was  shocked  and  sorrowful. 
The  marriage  of  her  eldest  son,  I  doubt  not,  had 
been  in  her  thoughts  these  many  years:  and  in 
her  visions  she  had  been  present  with  dignity 
and  pride,  Mr.  Duckie  beside  her  in  his  very 
best,  and  Be-trice  so  captivating  as  to  make  the 
possibility  of  the  second  wedding  —  the  wedding 
that  grows  from  a  wedding,  as  of  course  one 
always  should  —  a  certainty.  The  reality,  in 
which  she  found  herself  an  alien  hi  a  new  world 
(but  her  son's)  of  light-hearted  laxity,  must  have 
been  very  disturbing. 

Mr.  Duckie's  discomfiture,  as  charming  duettists 
and  dashing  serios  with  gamboge  locks  patted 
his  cheeks  and  pulled  his  whiskers  and  compli- 
mented him  on  his  new  daughter-in-law,  was 
more  physical,  and  was  another  proof  of  the 
importance  to  their  importance  of  important 
persons  keeping  to  their  own  natural  environ- 
ment. Here  was  the  autocrat  of  the  Fleet  Street 
grill-room  and  countless  City  dinners  visibly 
abashed  in  broad  day.  There  is,  I  suppose,  no 
potentate  so  powerful  that  skilful  transplantation 
could  not  make  small. 

Bonnie  Birdie  Twist,  so  soon  to  be  Bonnie 
Birdie  Pinto,  or  rather  Duckie,  had  a  smile 
for  every  one,  and  she  continued  to  recognise 
her  friends,  with  appropriate  greetings,  such  as 
"Cheer-O  Alice!"  "What-ho,  Bill!"  even  while 
the  Registrar  was  reciting  the  most  compro- 
mising of  his  sentences,  which  he  did  to  a 
muffled  rendering  by  most  of  the  company  of 


252  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

Alf's  famous  chorus,   adapted  by  a  quick-witted 
colleague :  — 

"Mr.  Right!    Mr.  Right! 

Our  Birdie  and  he  have  met; 
So  cheer  up,  girls,  and  wish  them  lots  of  luck, 
And  there'll  soon  be  .  .  ." 

but  I  must  not  transcribe  further. 

Could  there  be  a  scene  more  different  from 
that  provided  on  similar  occasions  by  the  Establish- 
ment ?  —  and  yet,  I  daresay,  the  knot  will  last  as 
long  and  be  as  honourably  respected  as  if  it  had 
tied  under  even  episcopal  auspices.  Certainly  it 
could  not  last  a  shorter  time  than  many  that  date 
from  the  chancel  steps. 

After  the  formality  what  fussing  and  congratu- 
lations! There  was  room  for  a  few  minutes  on 
every  one's  lap  for  the  bride;  and  room  on  hers 
for  every  one.  Alf  meanwhile  was  not  idle,  em- 
bracing and  being  embraced;  while  funny  men 
flung  their  arms  round  Mrs.  Duckie's  neck  and 
reduced  her  to  a  mass  of  scarlet  confusion.  Mr. 
Duckie  meanwhile  was  finding  his  bearings  at  the 
buffet;  Be-trice  was  the  centre  of  an  admiring 
circle  of  lion  comiques;  and  Ern  was  becoming 
the  firm  friend  of  a  boy  contortionist  (known  to 
the  world  as  Ernesto,  the  Human  Serpent),  and 
rapidly  losing  his  hold  on  the  allurements  of 
chauffing. 

I  moved  among  these  strange  impulsive  confi- 
dent creatures  with  the  deepest  interest.  All  were 
jolly,  all  were  ready  to  give  and  take  chaff,  there 
was  no  faltering  in  repartee  even  if  there  was  no 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  253 

subtlety.  And  all  were  fairly  hard-working 
honest-living  folk,  whose  efforts  were  mainly 
directed  to  keeping  the  ball  of  pleasure  rolling; 
that  is  to  say,  all  were  in  a  way  unnecessary. 
I  refer  particularly  to  the  professionals  and  the 
bookmakers;  for  I  suppose  that  the  licensed 
victuallers,  even  in  times  of  great  national  stress, 
when  one  can  imagine  music  halls  closing  all 
around  and  race  meetings  neglected,  would  still 
be  busy  hi  their  shirt  sleeves. 

Whether  the  professionals,  the  bookmakers,  or 
the  publicans  interested  me  most,  I  cannot  say; 
but  all  were  a  very  curious  society,  living  completely 
within  their  own  boundaries,  so  very  differently 
from  ordinary  persons,  and  to  the  casual  observer 
so  lawlessly,  and  yet  obeying  their  own  laws  too; 
wholly  independent  of  religion,  and  yet  getting 
through  life  with  certainly  no  less  kindliness  and 
forgiveness  and  practical  generosity  to  their  names 
than  professedly  religious  people,  if  not  more;  all 
English,  and  yet  so  thoroughly  un-English ;  all  busy, 
or  at  any  rate  living  fatiguing  lives,  making  money 
easily  and  spending  it  easily,  living  practically  only 
for  to-day.  I  was  glad  that  I  went;  I  was  equally 
glad  to  escape. 

I  moved  outside  as  soon  as  it  seemed  time  for 
the  couple  to  leave.  They  were  to  be  driven  off 
in  a  taxi-cab,  with  a  comic  driver  and  a  string  of 
boots  trailing  behind  it  like  the  tail  of  a  kite. 
The  ordinary  bridegroom  is  careful  to  remove 
such  appendages  as  soon  as  he  can.  It  will  give 
a  vivid  idea  of  the  character  of  the  Pinto-Twist 


254  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

wedding  when  I  say  that  Alf  spent  some  time  in 
helping  to  fix  this  one  to  the  cab. 

Among  the  crowd  outside  I  perceived  Miss 
Wagstaff,  who,  seeing  me,  joined  me,  and  we 
chatted  together  for  awhile. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  I  asked,  as  her 
mouth  curled  sarcastically  at  the  sight  of  the 
string  of  old  boots  and  the  comic  men  on  the 
Assembly  Room  steps  affecting  to  faint  with  grief 
into  each  other's  arms. 

"Very  little,"  she  said  bitterly.  "They're  too 
much  alike.  A  quieter  kind  of  girl  would  have 
done  him  more  good." 

I  stole  a  glance  at  her.  Had  she  been  nursing 
a  tenderness  for  Alf  herself?  One  knows  so  little 
of  one's  fellow-creatures. 

"And  I'm  tired  of  weddings  anyhow,"  she  said. 

At  this  point  the  crowd  raised  three  cheers  and 
then  again  broke  into  the  chorus  of  Alf's  great 
song,  but  in  its  original  form :  — 

"Mr.  Right!     Mr.  Right! 

He  may  not  have  knocked  just  yet; 
But,  cheer  up,  girls,  he's  putting  on  his  boots, 
And  he'll  soon  be  here,  you  bet  I" 

This  they  followed  with  Bonnie  Birdie  Twist's 
phenomenal  success :  — 

"Is  there  room  in  your  lap  for  me?" 

to  which  Alf  replied  by  thrusting  his  head  out  of 
the  window  with  a  thundering  "No!" — and  so 
bride  and  bridegroom  disappeared  from  view. 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS          255 

The  point  of  Miss  Wagstaff's  nose  soared 
higher  in  the  air  as  we  took  a  last  look  of  the  scene, 
and  we  then  turned  away  together. 

"After  a  wedding,  a  funeral,"  she  said.  "I'm 
going  to  see  how  old  Glendinning  is.  He  was 
so  bad  on  Monday  that  they  had  to  take  him  to 
the  hospital.  That  means  getting  another  cata- 
loguer, I  suppose." 

"Can't  he  recover?"  I  asked. 

"Recover!  There's  nothing  to  recover  on. 
He's  just  skin  and  bone.  He's  eaten  nothing  for 
years;  nothing  but  gin." 

I  went  with  her  to  the  hospital,  and  we  were 
allowed  to  see  the  old  man.  By  an  extraordinary 
chance,  one  of  the  staff  had  been  a  pupil  of  his  in 
the  days  of  his  prosperity  as  a  schoolmaster,  and 
there  had  been  a  recognition.  The  circumstance 
had  turned  Mr.  Glendinning' s  thoughts  again  to 
that  happier  period.  He  was  voluble,  but  quite 
unconscious  of  his  surroundings. 

Miss  Wagstaff,  with  a  tenderness  of  which  I 
had  not  suspected  her,  sat  by  his  side  and  held 
his  hand.  He  did  not  recognise  her,  but  called 
her  Ellen  and  stroked  her  hair.  Where  was  the 
real  Ellen,  I  wondered.  Never  to  see  him  again 
or  be  seen  by  him;  that  was  certain. 

As  he  became  more  delirious  he  identified  him- 
self more  and  more  with  his  old  post  of  authority. 
The  weak  tremulous  lip  of  the  tippler  took  on  a 
firmness,  his  watery  eye  almost  flashed.  At  one 
moment  he  was  hi  class  construing  Xenophon,  at 
another  at  the  nets;  but  everywhere  the  instructor 


256  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

in  command.  "Don't  shift  your  feet!"  he  cried 
to  an  imaginary  batsman.  "The  ball  won't  hurt 
you!"  So  the  old  man  had  been  a  cricketer 
too! 

We  left  him  still  raving,  as  the  nurse  called  it, 
but  to  my  thinking  happier  and  nearer  his  right 
mind  than  he  had  been  for  many  a  long  year. 

And  the  other  wedding? 

For  that,  I  must  go  back  a  little  into  time.  I 
told  you  about  old  Mrs.  Wynne's  efforts  to  find 
Drusilla  a  husband  among  the  eligible  young 
men  of  Ludlow  and  district.  In  vain.  But  a 
capricious  chance  can  do  on  its  head,  as  Dollie 
would  say,  that  which  not  all  the  old  ladies  in 
Shropshire  can  compass  with  bell,  book,  and 
candle. 

Drusilla,  her  visit  ended,  returned  to  London 
with  a  glad  heart.  She  took  her  place  in  the  ex- 
press at  Shrewsbury,  in  a  third-class  compartment 
with  three  other  persons  in  it,  and  settled  down 
to  her  novel,  on  excellent  terms  with  herself  and 
the  world.  She  had  done  her  duty  and  might 
now  do  something  pleasant  —  a  perfect  foundation 
for  peace  of  mind. 

At  Wolverhampton  two  of  the  three  other  pas- 
sengers left,  and  no  other  coming  in,  Drusilla 
found  herself  sitting  opposite  a  clean-shaven, 
grey-eyed  young  man  of  determined  but  agree- 
able aspect,  who  was  reading  The  British  Medical 
Journal. 

Being  merely  a  man,  and  not  obviously  a  male 
reformer,  this  creature  naturally  had  no  possible 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  257 

interest  for  Drusilla,  or  should  not  have  had;  but 
our  little  Drusilla,  although  still  veneered  with 
Purpose  and  Campaign  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  was 
yet  akin  to  the  old  Eve  too;  and,  after  all,  his 
eyes  really  were  very  clear  and  direct,  and  his 
mouth  was  at  once  firm  and  tender,  and  his  hands 
looked  strong  and  capable  and  were  not  wholly 
shapeless  either.  There  had  been  worse  hands  at 
the  Slade,  where  hands  were  supposed  to  mean  so 
much. 

It  was  easy  to  observe  these,  for  they  were 
holding  up  The  British  Medical  Journal  before  his 
face. 

Drusilla's  thoughts  left  her  novel. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Socialists  have  such  indifferent 
tailors. 

Why  should  they? 

Surely  it  is  possible  to  be  interested  in  the  higher 
ideals,  and  also  go  to  a  good  barber  and  keep  one's 
knees  from  bagging? 

At  any  rate,  every  one  knows  that  there  are 
exceptions  to  every  rule. 

No  one  would  read  The  British  Medical  Journal 
unless  he  had  some  kind  of  intellect,  even  if  one 
of  the  papers  on  the  seat  beside  him  was  rather 
violently  pink. 

At  Leamington  the  unexpected  happened.  A 
Japanese  spaniel  fell  down  between  the  train  and 
the  platform  just  before  they  stopped,  and  had  a 
paw  crushed  by  the  wheel  of  Drusilla's  carriage. 
She  uttered  a  cry  of  anguish  as  she  learned  of 
the  accident,  and  her  companion  leaped  out  and, 


258  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

extricating  the  little  animal,  examined  the  wound 
and  comforted  its  owner. 

Drusilla  loved  dogs,  and  the  incident  led  to 
conversation.  He  was  a  doctor  at  Thomas's. 
They  talked  all  the  way  to  London. 

Where  and  when  Drusilla  met  her  doctor  again 
I  do  not  know,  but  she  lost  no  time  in  doing 
so  on  our  return  from  Venice,  and  electrified  the 
family  one  evening  very  shortly  after  by  announc- 
ing that  she  was  giving  up  art  and  intended  to 
be  a  hospital  nurse. 

It  is  an  ordeal  which  many  families  have  to 
undergo,  and  it  brings  forth  in  most  the  same 
blend  of  resignation,  admiration,  impatience,  and 
satire.  Naomi,  who  suspected  nothing,  defended 
and  supported  her  sister;  Alderley  was  vexed,  in 
part,  I  think,  at  the  conventionality  of  the  decision 
from  such  an  independent  girl  as  his  second 
daughter,  and  in  part  at  the  sacrifice  of  her  paint- 
ing lessons;  Mrs.  Wynne  took  it  as  it  came,  and 
hoped  for  the  best,  liking  moreover  the  old- 
fashionedness  of  a  step  that  seemed  to  involve 
a  little  drudgery  and  self-sacrifice;  while  Lionel 
said  something  about  the  uniform  — "Not  quite  so 
fetching  perhaps  as  the  Salvation  Army  bonnet, 
but  a  jolly  sight  prettier  than  dingy  Slade  greens 
and  browns." 

All  innocently  I  put  my  foot  into  it  by  saying 
that  I  hoped  that  her  Hospital  would  be  Bart's, 
because  I  had  an  uncle  who  used  to  be  on  the 
staff  there,  and  the  circumstance  had  given  me  a 
kind  of  proprietary  interest  in  the  place;  but 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  259 

Brasilia  declared  for  Thomas's,  and  Thomas's 
alone,  so  emphatically  as  almost  to  give  away 
her  secret. 

Lionel,  who,  for  a  thoughtless  youth,  has 
diabolical  luck  in  his  sharpshooting,  went  on  to 
remark  that  girls  who  wished  to  be  hospital 
nurses  had  always  marked  down  their  doctor  first. 
Naomi  told  him  not  to  be  unkind;  but  Brasilia's 
cheeks  confessed  his  accuracy. 

As  it  happened,  however,  Brasilia  never  donned 
the  uniform.  There  was  no  need. 

By  an  odd  chance  I  was  the  first  person  to 
whom  she  confided  her  secret.  I  say  odd  chance, 
because,  although  we  have  been  happy  enough 
together,  I  am  not  exactly  a  favourite  with  her. 
But  young  women  in  love  when  they  want  a 
thing  done  can  make  exceptions;  and,  as  it 
happened,  I  was  in  the  way  of  being  useful  to 
her  conquering  Adonis. 

It  seemed  that  suddenly,  out  of  a  clear  sky, 
had  dropped  the  offer  of  a  medical  post  in  Buenos 
Ayres,  at  a  high  salary,  the  condition  being  that 
it  was  accepted  at  once.  To  me,  therefore,  as  an 
old  Argentinian,  came  Brasilia  to  asl^  if  I  advised 
it,  and  what  was  the  hospital  like,  and  would  I 
give  introductions  if  it  was  accepted  —  speaking 
vaguely  of  some  one  she  was  interested  in,  a 
friend  of  a  friend,  and  so  on:  mystifications  so 
time-worn  as  to  wear  every  sign-manual  of  truth. 

I  disguised  my  divination  of  her  secret  and 
advised  in  favour  of  her  friend's  friend  accepting 
the  appointment,  and  promised  to  write  any 


260  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

number  of  letters  of  introduction  if  she  would  tell 
me  what  name  to  call  him  by. 

She  blushed  and  was  silent  for  a  minute,  and 
then  she  told  me  all  and  expressed  their  inten- 
tion, contingent  apparently  upon  my  opinion  being 
favourable,  of  being  married  at  once,  as  she  had 
resolved  to  bear  him  company  to  the  new  post 
as  his  wife. 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "but  kindly  let  me 
know  when  the  bomb  is  to  be  exploded  in 
the  family  circle,  and  I  will  be  careful  to  dine 
elsewhere." 

If  I  smiled  a  little  as  she  told  her  story,  Heaven 
forgive  me,  for  I  would  not  willingly  wound  a 
young  and  ardent  heart;  but  to  have  Drusilla's 
altruistic  zeal  to  be  a  hospital  nurse  so  suddenly 
laid  bare  was  more  than  flesh  and  blood  —  at 
any  rate  the  flesh  and  blood  of  my  tell-tale  lips 
—  could  stand.  She  took  it  very  well,  though,  as 
we  can  take  things  when  we  are  preoccupied  or 
they  make  us  happy. 

Mrs.  Duckie  came  in  just  as  I  was  ready 
for  Drusilla's  wedding,  and  looked  me  over 
approvingly. 

"It  will  be  a  nicer  wedding  than  ours  the  other 
day,"  she  said  a  little  wistfully.  "I  can't  forget 
those  comic  men.  The  idea  of  comicalities  at  a 
wedding!  But  there,  one  never  knows  what  the 
world's  coming  to!  I  shan't  get  my  peace  of 
mind  back  till  Be-trice  goes  off.  No  comicalities 
then,  I  promise  you.  I  mean  to  write  to  Canon 
Lyme  to  ask  him  as  a  great  favour  to  oblige. 


I  ASSIST  AT  TWO  WEDDINGS  261 

His  wedding  sermons  are  beautiful.  Not  a  dry 
eye." 

The  good  woman,  she  is  quite  right.  Wed- 
ding are  for  tears:  only  those  guests  who  can  cry 
really  enjoy  them. 

I  did  not  myself  cry  at  Drusilla's,  —  at  least 
I  produced  no  tears,  — but  it  was  a  melancholy 
occasion.  Such  was  the  haste  that  the  two 
families  had  had  no  time  to  become  acquainted, 
and  we  seemed  to  be  engaged  rather  in  some 
ceremony  of  hostility  than  of  fusion.  We  fell 
naturally  into  sides,  Montagus,  almost,  and 
Capulets. 

To  add  to  the  difficulty,  the  father  and 
mother  of  the  bridegroom  were  so  much  like 
several  other  members  of  their  party  that  slights 
were  of  constant  occurrence;  but  this  is  a 
common  experience  at  weddings,  where  the 
newness  of  clothes  cancels  personality. 

However,  even  weddings  come  to  an  end,  and 
by  four  o'clock  we  were  cheering  a  departing 
brougham  on  its  way  to  Waterloo  for  South- 
hampton  and  South  America.  There  was  no 
singing  of  "Mr.  Right,"  but  I  felt  very  little 
uneasiness  as  to  Drusilla's  future.  None  the  less, 
the  more  I  revolved  the  matter  that  evening  the 
more  did  I  wonder  that  affectionate  parents  can 
ever  give  their  consent  to  their  children's  marriage 
at  all.  I  can  understand  a  father  having  no 
particular  objection  to  his  son's  wife,  and  a 
mother  to  her  daughter's  husband;  but  how  a 
father  can  ever  even  tolerate  his  daughter's 


262  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

husband  or  a  mother  the  wife  of  her  son,  that  is 
beyond    my    imagination.     And    that    night    as    I 
watched    Alderley's   gallant    efforts   to   be   gay    at 
dinner  I  realised  my  perplexity  more  than  ever. 
Life  can  be  very  hard  on  parents. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MR.  DABNEY  AGAIN  SUFFERS,  AND 
THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION  DOES 
NOT  KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR,  BUT 
WALKS  RIGHT  IN  AND  TALKS  EX- 
TRAORDINARY STRANGE  TALK 

OLD  Mrs.  Wynne,  who  in  spite  of  the 
failure  of  her  own  plans,  persists  in 
considering  this  match  her  own  making,  and 
who  came  all  the  way  from  Ludlow  to  attend 
the  wedding,  paid  us  a  call  the  next  morning,  to 
my  great  surprise. 

While  she  was  sitting  in  my  best  chair,  who 
should  dash  in  but  Mr.  Dabney  on  his  way 
downstairs.  On  catching  sight  of  Mrs.  Wynne, 
he  was  for  a  swift  retreat;  but  the  old  lady 
stopped  him  and  compelled  him  to  sit  down 
and  be  courteous  if  not  courtly. 

As  they  conversed,  her  eye,  by  malignant 
chance,  alighted  upon  my  copy  of  the  Pick- 
wick Papers,  and  she  asked  me  to  hand  it  to 
her. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "Pickwick I  —  what  a 
263 


264  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

wonderful  book!  You,  Mr.  Dabney,"  she  con- 
tinued, "being  a  literary  man,  will  be  interested 
in  hearing  that  I  once  met  the  author  of  this 
work." 

Mr.  Dabney  shot  me  a  tragic  look. 

"Did  you  indeed?"  he  said,  adding  quickly, 
"but,  of  course,  you  told  me  about  it  when  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  dinner  in 
Queen  Anne's  Gate." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Wynne.  "I 
don't  remember  it. " 

"Assuredly,"  said  Mr.  Dabney,  "I  remember 
it  very  vividly." 

"Very  strange  that  I  should  not,"  replied  the 
old  lady;  "but  it  happened  in  this  way.  I  was 
at  Manchester  with  me  dear  husband  some  time 
in  the  sixties.  I  forget  the  exact  year.  Me 
husband  was  there  on  business,  and  it  happened 
that  Mr.  Dickens  was  giving  one  of  his  inimitable 
readings.  We  all  stayed  in  the  same  hotel,  and 
Mr.  Dickens  breakfasted  at  the  same  table  as 
ourselves.  The  toast  was  not  good,  and  I  re- 
member that  Mr.  Dickens  ..." 

At  this  point  I  stole  gently  from  the  room, 
for  Mr.  Dabney,  I  felt,  must  be  rescued  at  any 
cost.  Hastily  scribbling  a  note  I  gave  it  to  Ern, 
who  was  bending  himself  into  a  hoop  on  the 
landing,  and  telling  him  to  count  ten  and  then 
bring  it  to  my  room,  I  returned. 

Mrs.  Wynne  had  just  reached  Mr.  Thackeray. 
"It  was,"  she  was  saying,  "at  a  conversazione  at 
the  Royal  Society.  Me  dear  husband  and  I 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION  265 

were  leaving  at  the  same  time  as  the  great 
man  .  .  ." 

Here  came  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"A  letter  for  Mr.  Dabney,"  said  Em,  "marked 
urgent." 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Dabney,  and 
took  it.  He  read  it  gravely,  cast  me  a  glance 
of  intense  gratitude,  and  murmuring  something 
about  a  very  important  matter,  bade  Mrs.  Wynne 
a  cordial  farewell  and  hurried  away. 

I  heard  a  jingling  of  coins  outside,  and  as  Ern 
immediately  afterwards  descended  the  stairs  four 
at  a  time,  I  guessed  that  for  the  moment  bulls' 
eyes  superseded  contortions. 

"A  nice  man,"  says  Mrs.  Wynne,  "but  not  a 
good  listener.  His  thoughts  seem  inclined  to 
wander.  I  hope  he  is  clever  in  proportion.  Did 
you  say  he  wrote  novels?  I  must  read  one." 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Wynne  returned  to  Ludlow, 
taking  the  Queen  Anne's  Gate  family,  with  the 
exception  of  Lionel,  with  her.  I  was  left  alone. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Naomi  had  not  been 
within  call  ever  since  I  returned  to  England;  and 
I  was  lost. 

I  found  that  I  had  nothing  to  do.  Even 
London  withdrew  its  fascination.  I  went  down 
to  Norfolk  to  see  our  old  home,  and  hurried 
back  plunged  hi  melancholy.  I  drove  to 
Paddington  early  one  morning,  intending  to  go 
to  Ludlow  and  stay  at  The  Feathers;  but  at  the 
station  I  thought  better  of  it,  and  returned. 

In    a    kind    of   despair    I    became    a    clubman 


266  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

again,  and  with  the  utmost  regularity  for  a  few 
days  sat  in  arm-chairs  and  read  papers  and  novels 
and  permitted  cowed  waiters  to  approach  me  and 
supply  my  needs.  I  am  no  clubman  by  nature, 
but  my  father  having  years  and  years  ago  paid 
my  entrance  fee  to  a  Pall  Mall  monastery,  I  had 
felt  it  a  pious  duty  to  keep  up  the  subscriptions. 

Poor  little  Drusilla,  I  thought,  how  much  more 
efficacious  than  fines  or  imprisonment  it  would  be 
if  the  magistrates  had  sentenced  the  suffrage 
revolutionaries  to  spend  a  few  hours  observing 
through  a  grill  the  daily  routine  of  a  club  life! 
Never  would  they  revolt  again.  Such  a  hope- 
lessness would  settle  on  their  hearts  and  brains 
as  would  crush  out  every  emotion  save  despair. 
Woman's  chance  in  England  will  come  only 
when  she  has  destroyed  the  Club. 

The  evening  before  the  Wynnes  returned  I 
went  home  desperately  tired.  There  had  been 
a  heavy  thundercloud  over  London  most  of  the 
day,  and  the  city  was  without  air.  I  could  easily 
have  slept  on  an  Embankment  seat,  I  was  so 
weary. 

On  lighting  my  lamp  I  had  a  shock;  for  in  my 
chair  was  sitting  a  young  man.  Perfectly  silent 
he  sat,  with  an  ease  of  manner,  a  quiet  sug- 
gestion of  possession,  that  I  resented  intensely. 
He  wore  a  loose  tweed  suit,  and  held  a  pipe  in 
his  hand.  I  could  not  see  his  face. 

As  he  gave  no  sign  of  observing  my  entrance 
I  coughed,  and  then  asked  if  he  were  waiting  for 
me,  and  what  could  I  do  for  him.  He  replied 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION  267 

that  he  was  waiting  for  me,  but  that  whether  or 
not  I  could  do  anything  for  him  remained  to  be 
seen.  His  voice  sounded  strangely  familiar  too, 
but  still  he  did  not  move  his  head,  which  was  a 
young  head  with  plenty  of  brown  hair  not  too 
orderly. 

I  had  a  feeling  of  fear.  It  seemed  uncanny. 
I  advanced  nearer,  wondering  what  to  do  next, 
when  he  got  up  lazily,  stretched  himself,  yawned, 
and  looked  round. 

I  saw  his  face  for  the  first  time,  and  held  to  the 
table  or  I  should  have  fallen. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  he  asked. 

Know  him?     Of  course  I  did.     It  was   myself. 

Not  myself  as  I  am  to-day,  but  myself  of 
twenty-one.  I  now  remembered  the  suit  perfectly 
too. 

I  continued  to  hold  on  to  the  table  and  I  felt 
a  little  sick.  I  hate  and  dread  the  supernatural. 
But  he  soon  put  me  at  my  ease,  or  thereabouts. 

"How  are  you?"  he  said.  "I  can  see  it  is 
time  I  called.  Let  me  look  at  your  face.  Yes," 
he  said,  after  a  long  scrutiny,  "selfish.  You  think 
too  much  of  your  comfort.  You  don't  believe  in 
anything:  there  is  a  self-satisfied  superior  hard- 
ness in  your  eyes.  You  have  not  cried  for  years. 
You  profess  to  feel  sorry  for  people,  but  your 
philosophy  is  stronger  than  your  pity.  When 
did  you  last  do  an  impulsive  thing?" 

"Impulse,"  I  said,  "is  largely  a  matter  of  in- 
experience. I  have  seen  a  deal  of  the  world." 
(At  the  same  time  I  felt  that  he  was  doing  me  a 


268  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

vile  injustice.  I  really  was,  I  remember  thinking, 
a  very  kind  man.) 

"Also,"  he  added,  "you're  getting  fat." 

"No,"  I  said,  "not  fat.  That's  merely  the 
solidity  of  age.  Remember,  I'm  getting  on." 

"Remember,"  he  said  bitterly.  "How  can  I 
forget  it?  That  is  why  I'm  here." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked  him. 

"Mean!  My  dear  fellow,  I  have  been  watching 
you  for  years  —  ever  since  you  dropped  me,  hi  fact, 
and  I've  longed  to  get  a  good  straight  talk  with 
you;  but  I  wasn't  allowed.  Nothing  can  happen 
till  it  is  time." 

"And  why,"  I  asked,  trembling  and  chilling  a 
little,  "is  it  time  to-night?"  (But  I  knew  why.) 

"I  can't  say,"  he  replied,  "but  here  I  am. 
Let's  see,  how  old  exactly  are  you?" 

"Fifty-five." 

"Is  it  so  long?  How  do  you  spend  your 
time?  What  do  you  do?" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I've  retired.  I  read  a  good 
deal.  I  visit  my  friends.  I  walk  about  and  talk 
to  people.  What  should  I  do  ?  " 

"Do  you  ever  get  drunk?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said. 

"No,  I  thought  not,"  he  replied,  with  a  sneer. 
"Nothing  so  enterprising.  You  keep  on  the  safe 
side.  But  don't  forget  your  old  views  as  to  the 
value  of  the  occasional  lapse  —  let  me  see,  what 
were  the  words  ?  — '  the  humanising  influence  of 
the  orgy.'  You've  grown  out  of  all  that,  I 
suppose." 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION  269 

"One's  health  does  not  admit  it  at  my  age," 
I  said. 

"Health!"  he  echoed.  "Of  course.  I  had 
forgotten  that.  Or  rather,  I  have  laughed 
at  it  so  long.  But  tell  me,  don't  you  re- 
member me  at  all?  We  were  very  happy, 
weren't  we?" 

"Fairly,"  I  said. 

"Have  you  gone  back  on  everything?"  he 
continued.  "All  those  old  schemes  over  the  red 
wine  in  Soho?  We  were  to  do  such  things! 
We  were  to  be  so  keen  for  the  best,  and  the  best 
only.  The  best  work  and  the  best  emotions. 
We  were  to  help  so  frankly.  We  were  to  do 
so  much  to  break  down  the  bad  barriers  between 
men  and  women;  and  now,  tell  me,  what  have 
you  to  show  for  it  all?" 

I  didn't  feel  very  comfortable. 

"What  have  you  ever  done  for  any  one?" 

How  can  one  answer  questions  like  that?  I 
had  not  been  so  utterly  unhelpful,  I  knew,  but 
I  could  not  begin  a  catalogue  of  my  benefi- 
cences; it  was  too  ridiculous. 

"What  have  you  done  for  any  one  to-day?" 
he  went  on. 

I  said  nothing. 

"Where  did  you  dine  to-night?" 

"To-night  I  dined  at  my  club." 

"What  did  you  do  after?" 

"I  smoked  a  cigar,  read  the  papers  and  skimmed 
a  novel,  and  then  came  back." 

"Did  you  speak  to  any  one?" 


270  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"No  one,  except  a  waiter." 

"What  did  you  do  all  day?" 

"I  was  at  my  tailor's  this  morning;  after  lunch 
I  went  to  Lord's." 

"And  you  call  that  life?" 

"Well,  it  passed  the  time." 

"With  all  the  world  at  your  feet?" 

"I  have  been  busy  enough  in  my  day." 

"Yes,  in  a  Buenos  Ayres  counting-house.  Did 
you  make  money?" 

"I  have  enough." 

"Enough  for  what?" 

"For  security;  for  my  simple  needs,  and  a 
little  over." 

"  Your  simple  needs !  Heavens,  man,  you  make 
me  furious.  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  of  your 
simple  needs  and  your  scrubby  little  club  routine  — 
me,  with  the  old  abundant  programme  still  on  my 
lips!  Can't  you  put  yourself  in  my  place  for  a 
moment  and  think  what  it  means  to  see  every 
fine  generous  resolve  gone  wrong?  How  do  you 
suppose  it  can  strike  me  —  yourself  at  twenty-one, 
remember  —  to  see  such  a  miscarriage  of  idealism 
as  you !  You,  who  began  so  well,  and  promised 
to  rise  so  high  above  the  petty  ruck;  you,  who 
were  famous  for  your  fearlessness  as  a  critic  of 
conventions  and  shams.  And  now,  how  do  I  find 
you  ?  —  an  old,  timid,  selfish  clubman,  por- 
ing over  the  papers  in  a  cold  sweat  for  fear  of  los- 
ing any  of  the  dirty  little  dividends  that  give 
you  the  hogwash  you  call  comfort  and  security. 
Security!  To  think  that  I  should  ever  hear  you 


THE  YOUNGER  GENERATION  271 

use  such  a  word.  It  was  not  in  your  dictionary 
in  my  day. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  hurried  on,  "I  know  you're  a 
gentleman,  and  all  that;  but  that's  what's  wrong. 
You  weren't  going  to  be  a  sterile  gentleman,  you 
were  going  to  be  a  real  man;  you  were  going  to 
help  put  things  right.  And  now  what  do  I  find 
you  doing?" 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Then  he  continued 
his  catechism.  "Why  didn't  you  come  home  now 
and  then  from  Buenos  Ayres?" 

"I  couldn't,  there  was  no  one  else  to  take  my 
place." 

"Why  didn't  you  throw  it  up,  then?" 

"One  does  not  throw  things  up." 

"No,  one  does  not.  One  clings  to  one's  little 
pettifogging  habits  and  one's  little  mean  salary, 
even  in  a  foreign  land,  while  all  that  is  most  real 
and  beautiful  and  best  worth  doing  is  beckon- 
ing one  away.  Prudence  dictates  the  course, 
expediency  controls.  And  so  you  turned  your 
back  on  England  and  your  home  for  over  thirty 
years.  Friends  and  relations  died;  it  was 
nothing  to  you." 

"It  was  everything  to  me." 

"And  yet  you  did  not  come  home.  You 
went  on  languidly  and  happily  driving  some  one 
else's  quill  in  that  state  of  apathetic  indolence 
which  denationalisation  seems  to  carry  with  it,  and 
quietly  allowed  all  that  was  best  in  life  to  slip  from 
you.  I  know,  because  I  was  there." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stop  me !"  I  cried. 


27 2  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"Ah!  I  have  touched  you,"  he  said;  "you 
have  admitted  all.  I  did  not  stop  you  because 
those  are  the  things  we  have  to  do  without  help. 
I  am  here  to-night  not  on  your  account  in  the 
least,  you  have  passed  beyond  my  interest,  but 
on  account  of  some  one  else.  Why  aren't  you 
married?"  he  said  swiftly. 

I  began  to  see  what  was  coming. 

"Why?"  he  repeated.  "Have  you  never 
loved?" 

"Not  sufficiently,  I  suppose." 

"Don't  you  love  any  one  now?" 

"How  dare  you?" 

"I  am  here  to  dare;  remember,  I've  never 
grown  up;  daring  is  natural  enough  to  me.  / 
don't  ask  for  security.  Do  you  love  any  one 
now?" 

I  said  nothing. 

"You  love  Naomi,"  he  said. 

I  said  nothing. 

"You  love  her,"  he  repeated,  "and  —  God 
knows  why  —  she  loves  you." 

"Say  that  again!"  I  said. 

"  She  loves  you." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  know." 

I  felt  horribly  giddy  again. 

"Now  listen,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had 
become  kinder.  "This  is  your  last  chance. 
Be  a  man;  give  up  this  amiable  idling  and  do 
something  decisive.  Marry  her;  she's  the  best 
woman  you'll  ever  meet,  and  she'll  make  you 


THE  YOUNGER   GENERATION  273 

work.  Marry  her,  old  chap;  ask  her  to-morrow, 
and  begin  to  live  again.  You've  been  dead  too 
long." 

"Does  she  really  love  me?"  I  asked  him;  but 
he  had  disappeared. 

When  I  woke  up  I  found  I  was  still  in  my 
clothes  on  the  sitting-room  floor.  I  crept  to  bed 
in  a  daze. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
MISS  GOLD   SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY 

I  NEED  hardly  say  that  I  did  not  sleep  more 
that  night.  I  had  two  matters  of  the 
gravest  importance  to  ponder  upon:  the  shock 
to  my  complacency,  and  the  state  of  my  heart. 

As  to  the  charges  of  wasted  time,  I  was  bound 
to  admit  their  general  truth;  and  I  did  so  not  only 
by  temperament,  for  it  is  my  natural  tendency  to 
believe  in  the  soundness  of  an  adversary's  case, 
being  usually  more  ready  to  admit  the  error  than 
to  repulse  the  accusation,  —  a  poor  retrograde 
frame  of  mind  enough,  you  will  say,  but  my  own, 
—  but  also  after  thought  on  the  subject.  I  had, 
there  was  no  doubt,  vegetated  rather  than  lived. 

But  it  was  not  too  late  to  begin;  and  with  that 
brave  piece  of  optimism  for  a  halter,  I  gently  led 
the  first  part  of  the  indictment  into  the  back- 
ground and  left  it  there. 

But  then? 

Look  where  I  would  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
sweet  face  of  Naomi. 

That  I  was  never  happy  away  from  her,  I  had 
274 


MISS  GOLD   SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY      275 

proved ;  that  I  thought  of  her  continually,  I  knew ; 
that  if  she  were  to  go  away,  or,  worse,  marry 
another,  I  should  live  in  a  world  of  darkness,  I 
knew.  But  did  this  give  me  the  right  to  ask  her 
to  marry  me,  and  would  she  say  yes?  How 
did  that  young  devil  know  that  she  loved  me? 

The  whole  thing  was  an  absurd  dream,  realistic 
enough,  but  as  ridiculous  as  other  dreams. 

Having  reached  this  point  I  began  all  over 
again. 

At  six  I  got  up  and  walked  to  Covent  Garden 
and  drifted  about  among  the  flowers  and 
vegetables.  Then  I  had  a  Turkish  bath,  and 
after  breakfast  I  took  a  train  to  Esher.  The 
only  person  in  the  world  to  comfort  my  wounded 
spirit  and  perplexed  brain  was  Miss  Gold. 

I  began  with  the  young  man's  ultimatum  upon 
myself.  I  told  her  everything  that  had  been  said 
on  both  sides;  and  I  had  no  difficulty  in  doing 
so,  for  the  memory  was  burnt  into  my  brain.  Can 
it  have  been  a  dream?  It  seemed  too  real. 

"My  dear  Kent,"  she  said,  "why  are  you  so 
incorrigibly  hard  on  yourself?  Don't  you  see 
that  you  are  merely  the  victim  of  the  eternal 
impatience  and  illogical  cruelty  of  youth?  As 
far  as  I  can  understand,  the  charge  was  that  you 
at  fifty-five  or  so  no  longer  act  up  to  the  ideals 
you  had  at  twenty-one.  Is  it  not  so?  Well,  why 
on  earth  should  you?  You  would  indeed  cut  a 
rather  absurd  figure  if  you  did.  What  are  years 
for?" 

"Ah,  yes,"  I  said,  "that  is  the  case  right  enough, 


276  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

broadly  speaking;  but  of  course  he  had  a  lot  of 
right  on  his  side.  There  are  many  ideals  of  a 
young  man  which  it  were  better  not  to  forget." 

"Maybe  a  few,  but  the  world  is  a  great 
leveller,  and  every  year  brings  with  it  certain 
modifying  influences.  I  like  a  man  to  be  his 
age.  Twenty-one  is  not  an  age  I  am  very 
partial  to:  it  is  omniscient  and  exorbitant  and 
cruel;  but  I  like  a  youth  of  twenty-one  none 
the  less.  Forty  makes  better  company:  when  a 
man  knows  how  little  he  knows,  and  how  little 
life  holds  for  him,  and  is  yet  unsubdued. 

"My  dear  Kent,"  she  went  on,  "do  you  suppose 
there  is  a  living  creature  who  would  not  be 
vulnerable  to  the  reproaches  of  his  dead  selves  — 
even  the  busiest  and  most  philanthropical  of  us?" 

"Ah,"  I  said,  "but  my  theory  is  that  I  should 
not  feel  so  bad  about  it  if  there  was  not  a  deal 
of  truth.  I  am  lazy  —  no  one  can  deny  that.  I 
do  nothing  for  any  one." 

"Not  consciously,  perhaps,"  said  the  dear 
comforting  lady,  "but  unconsciously,  yes.  You 
don't  lose  your  temper.  You  have  pleasant 
words  for  those  you  meet.  You  write  kind 
letters.  You  pay  cheering  calls.  You  make 
no  one  unhappy." 

"Oh,  that,"  I  said,  "that  is  all  natural,  and 
besides  it  pleases  me  to  be  like  that." 

"And  why  not?"  she  answered.  "You  are 
not  a  saint,  I  know,  and  you  never  will  be; 
you  will  never  make  any  great  sacrifice;  but 
that  isn't  because  you  would  shrink  from  it  if 


MISS  GOLD  SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY      277 

you  had  to,  but  because  it  is  not  given  to  your 
kind  to  hear  such  calls.  You  are  not  a  saint; 
but  neither  are  you  a  humbug.  It  is  not  lovely  to 
believe  in  nothing,  but  it  is  far  less  unlovely  than 
to  pretend  to  believe  in  something  or  to  make 
money  out  of  religion.  You  set  an  example  of 
intellectual  honesty  that  I  personally  would  put 
in  the  balance  against  a  good  deal  of  violent 
charity  and  the  higher  busy-bodiness." 

"My  dear  Agnes,"  I  said,  "I  did  not  come 
here  to  be  flattered,  but  to  arrive  at  the  truth. 
You  are  making  me  as  uncomfortable  on  this 
side  as  that  young  man  in  my  dream  made 
me  on  the  other.  I  want  to  hit  the  middle 
way." 

But  I  knew  what  she  was  driving  at;  I  knew 
that  she  knew  that  I  had  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  myself  if  I  was  to  unbosom  without  reserve. 
Hence  her  over-kindness. 

"Is  that  all  he  said  to  you?"  she  asked  after 
a  while. 

"Practically  all,"  I  said. 

"Nothing  in  the  nature  of  advice  in  so  many 
words?" 

"It  was  all  advice  and  scolding,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  she  persisted,  "but  did  he  say  anything 
about — about  marrying,  for  example?"  She 
shot  a  keen  glance  at  me. 

I  smiled  acquiescence. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Well,"  said  I. 

"And   why   not?"    said   she;     adding   sweetly, 


278  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

"My  poor  Kent,  will  you  never  learn  not  to  be 
tender-hearted?  Will  you  never  give  up  your 
bad  habit  of  being  sorrier  for  others  than  they 
are  for  themselves?  Let  me  tell  you  something: 
you  have  never  mentioned  marriage  or  love  to 
me  because  you  thought  it  would  be  cruel  —  because 
you  thought  that  having  lost  all  that,  I  cannot  bear 
to  consider  it.  My  dear  Kent,  you  don't  know 
much  about  men,  but  you  know  nothing  about 
women.  Women  aren't  like  that.  Women  have 
not  that  kind  of  selfishness." 

I  kissed  her  poor  thin  hand,  so  white  and 
frail. 

"Kent,  dear,"  she  said,  "Kent,  dear,  how  much 
do  you  love  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  or  tried  to  say. 

"Enough  to  ..." 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "I  only  know  that  I 
think  of  nothing  else.  But  look  at  the  difference 
in  age,"  I  added,  for  I  have  never  learned  to 
have  mercy  on  myself. 

"Now,"  she  answered,  drawing  her  hand  away, 
"now  you  are  talking  rubbish.  Naomi's  years 
may  be  only  twenty-nine,  but  she  is  quite  as  old 
as  you  in  many  ways,  and  you  are  quite  as  young 
as  she  in  others." 

"But,"  I  said,  "I  am  such  a  dull,  unenter- 
prising ..." 

"Oh,  Kent,  Kent!"  she  cried,  "when  will  you 
learn  sense?  You  are  all  alike,  you  men.  Your 
vanity  has  got  to  be  satisfied.  You  must  assure 
your  own  judgment  of  your  own  merits.  When 


MISS  GOLD   SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY      279 

will  you  learn  that  women  don't  analyse  and 
appraise;  women  love.  That  is  enough  for  them 
—  they  love.  You  may  want  to  know  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  your  feeling  for  her,  and  make 
catalogues  of  her  merits  and  beauties,  and  apply 
the  right  adjectives  in  order  to  find  out  and 
support  your  line  of  action  and  prove  your  good 
taste;  but  all  the  while  you  are  doing  that,  the 
woman  is  loving.  She  doesn't  love  you  because 
of  anything  —  she  loves.  She  doesn't  care  whether 
you  are  handsome  or  ugly,  or  old  or  young,  or 
cruel  or  kind,  or  strong  or  weak,  or  conceited 
Or  humble,  whether  you  drop  your  h's,  or  have 
nothing  in  the  bank  —  those  things  are  beside  the 
mark,  because  she  loves. 

"And  to  think  that  you,"  she  continued,  "you, 
moving  in  the  world  as  you  have  done,  Kent, 
should  come  to  an  old  bedridden  woman  to  find 
out  this  patent  secret!  Oh,  I'm  ashamed  of 
you!" 

"Perhaps  I  was  not  quite  so  ignorant  as  all 
that,"  I  said,  "but  there  are  certain  things  that 
one  knows  and  yet  that  one's  humility  won't  let 
one  know.  But  do  you  mean,"  I  continued,  "that 
men  cannot  really  love  at  all?" 

"Not  as  women  can,"  she  replied.  "They  can 
desire,  they  can  possess,  they  can  admire,  they 
can  serve;  but  it  is  not  the  same  thing." 

"Then "  I  began. 

"Oh  no,"  she  hurried  on,  "not  that.  It  is  all 
as  it  should  be.  There  is  nothing  wrong  really. 
Men  think  they  are  loving,  and  therefore  it's  all 


28o  OVER  BEMERTON'S 

right.  But  they're  all  householders  and  slave- 
drivers  at  heart.  It's  a  law  of  life." 

"I  too?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  you  too,  although  you're  more  of  a 
mixture  than  most.  But  it  doesn't  matter; 
that  is  the  thing  you  must  understand.  It  is  all 
in  the  scheme. 

"Listen,  Kent,"  she  went  on.  "I  am  glad  this 
dream  came  to  you.  It  was  time.  It  would  be 
well  if  such  a  dream  could  come  to  every  man. 
But  you  must  not  be  unhappy  about  it,  because  it 
refers  to  the  past,  and  the  fault  was  not  yours.  It 
is  given  to  some  persons  to  develop,  to  grow  up, 
very  slowly.  Their  youth  is  stretched  out  to  its 
utmost  length,  and  perhaps  it  never  ends  at  all; 
not  always  through  their  own  natural  immaturity, 
but  by  the  accidental  absence  of  any  crisis  in 
their  lives,  any  event  grave  enough  to  pull  them 
together.  It  has  been  so  with  you.  You  have 
escaped  the  grand  emotions.  I  could  see  directly 
you  came  in  for  the  first  time  in  the  spring  that 
you  had  not  grown  up.  You  knew  a  good  deal. 
You  had  observed  closely,  but  you  had  felt 
nothing.  You  had  been  waiting.  Well,  you  can't 
help  that:  no  harm  is  done;  but  great  harm  will 
be  done  if  you  don't  behave  now.  You  grew  up 
last  night:  now  live." 

"I  think  if  you  don't  mind  I'll  go  into  the 
garden  for  a  little,"  I  said. 

I  walked  about  for  some  time,  and  then  I 
came  back.  She  was  lying  exactly  as  I  had  left 
—  more  or  less  as  she  had  been  lying  for  thirty 


MISS  GOLD  SHOWS  ME  THE  WAY      281 

years.  What  a  life !  She  smiled  at  me  very 
beautifully. 

"But  you  said  one  day,"  I  reminded  her,  "that 
Naomi  and  Trist  ought  to  be  brought  together." 

"True,"  she  answered.  "But  that  was  my  guile. 
I  wanted  to  sting  you  into  doing  something." 

"Well,  you  have,"  I  replied. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

REACHING  A  POINT  WHERE  MY  HIS- 
TORY BEGINS  TO  BE  WORTH  RE- 
CORDING, I  CEASE  TO  NARRATE  IT 

"  TNI  AOMI>"     *     said>    that     evening-     "  Dear 
-J-  ^     Naomi,    shall   we   go  into   partnership?" 
She  gave  me  her  hand. 


282 


Also  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 

A  Wanderer 
in  Holland 

With  twenty  illustrations  in  color  by  Herbert  Marshall,  besides  many 
reproductions  of  the  masterpieces  of  Dutch  painters. 

Cloth,  8vo,  $2.00  net 

"  It  is  not  very  easy  to  point  out  the  merits  which  make  this  volume 
immeasurably  superior  to  nine-tenths  of  the  books  of  travel  that  are 
offered  the  public  from  time  to  time.  Perhaps  it  is  to  be  traced  to  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Lucas  is  an  intellectual  loiterer,  rather  than  a  keen-eyed 
reporter,  eager  to  catch  a  train  for  the  next  stopping-place.  It  is  also 
to  be  found  partially  in  the  fact  that  the  author  is  so  much  in  love  with 
the  artistic  life  of  Holland." —  Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  is  an  observant  and  sympathetic  traveller,  and 
has  given  us  here  one  of  the  best  handbooks  on  Holland  which  we 
have  read.  .  .  .  The  volume  is  illustrated  with  drawings  in  color  of 
scenes,  many  of  which  are  exquisite."  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

"  Altogether  it  is  the  most  delightful  rambling  account  of  Holland 
that  has  come  before  the  reader  in  a  long  time."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  Next  to  travelling  oneself  is  to  have  a  book  of  this  sort,  written  by 
a  keenly  observant  man."  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

"  It  is  hard  to  imagine  a  pleasanter  book  of  its  kind. "  —  Courier- 
Journal,  Louisville. 

"  We  envy  the  reader  his  enjoyment  in  the  first  reading  of  this  en- 
dearing and  charming  volume  of  travel."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Lucas  relishes  a  good  story,  true  or  legendary,  enlivens  his 
pages  with  many  anecdotes,  and  is  not  above  noticing  street  scenes, 
costumes,  foods,  etc.  The  soft -toned  colored  illustrations  by  Herbert 
Marshall  alone  are  worth  the  price  of  the  book. "  —  Congregationalist. 


Also  by  E.  V,  LUCAS 

A  Wanderer 
in  London 

With  sixteen  illustrations  in  color  by  Mr.  Nelson  Dawson,  and  thirty- 
six  reproductions  of  great  pictures. 

Cloth,  8vo,  $1.75  net ;  by  mail,  $r.8j 

"  Mr.  Lucas  describes  London  in  a  style  that  is  always  entertaining, 
surprisingly  like  Andrew  Lang's,  full  of  unexpected  suggestions  and 
points  of  view,  so  that  one  who  knows  London  well  will  hereafter  look 
on  it  with  changed  eyes,  and  one  who  has  only  a  bowing  acquaintance 
will  feel  that  he  has  suddenly  become  intimate." —  The  Nation. 

"  Full  of  interest  and  sensitive  appreciation  of  the  most  fascinating 
city  in  the  world."  —  Bulletin,  San  Francisco. 

"  A  suggestive,  perhaps  an  inspiring  record  of  rambles  ...  a  book 
as  handsome  in  dress  as  it  is  entertaining  and  valuable."  —  Argonaut. 

"  One  can  hardly  hope  to  find  a  better  way  of  reviving  impressions 
and  seeing  things  in  a  new  setting  than  through  this  cheerful  and 
friendly  volume." —  Outlook. 

"  If  you  would  know  London  as  few  of  her  own  inhabitants  know 
her  —  if  you  would  read  one  of  the  best  books  of  the  current  season,  all 
that  is  necessary  is  a  copy  of  A  Wanderer  in  London"  —  Evening 
Post,  Chicago. 

"  In  short,  to  read  A  Wanderer  in  London  is  like  taking  long  tramps 
through  all  parts  of  the  city  with  a  companion  who  knows  all  the  in- 
teresting things  and  places  and  people  and  has  something  wise  or  gay 
or  genial  to  say  about  all  of  them." — New  York  Times'  Saturday  Review. 

"  Mr.  Lucas  is  a  competent  and  discriminating  guide  ;  his  interests 
are  many-sided.  He  is  connoiseur  and  raconteur  as  well  as  observer  and 
chronicler ;  and  he  knows  and  jots  down  just  the  sort  of  thing  one 
would  like  to  know  about  a  house,  or  a  park,  or  an  institution,  whether 
the  association  be  personal  or  historical  or  critical."  —  Herald. 


Also  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 

Listener's  Lure  cioth,i2mo,$i.5o 

A  novel,  original  and  pleasing,  whose  special  charm  lies  in  its  happy 
phrasing  of  acute  observations  of  life.  For  the  delicacy  with  which  his 
personalities  reveal  themselves  through  their  own  letters,  "  the  book 
might  be  favorably  compared,"  says  the  Chicago  Tribune,  "  with  much 
of  Jane  Austen's  character  work  "  —  and  the  critic  proceeds  to  justify, 
by  quotations,  what  he  admits  is  high  praise  indeed. 

Highways  and 
Byways  in  Sussex 

Illustrated  by  FREDERICK  L.  GRIGGS 

Green  cloth,  gilt  top,  $2.00 

The  London  Times:  "After  reading  Highways  and  Byways  in 
Sussex  ...  we  can  pay  the  author  no  greater  compliment  than  to  say 
that  we  should  like  to  go  on  a  walking  tour  with  him  through  the 
country.  There  is  an  originality,  a  spice  of  the  individual  mind,  about 
the  book  that  makes  it  interesting  to  readers  whose  knowledge  of  the 
country  is  confined  to  Brighton  and  the  Dike.  .  .  .  Mr.  Lucas  has  a 
seeing  eye,  and  a  fine  knack  of  helping  his  readers  to  see  with  it." 

Character  and 
Comedy 

Cloth,  idmo,  viii  +  2^9  pp.,  $1.25  net 

The  Outlook:  "The  informality,  intimacy,  unaffected  humor,  of 
these  unpretentious  papers  make  them  delightful  reading. " 

The  Tribune:  "Of  all  the  readers  of  Charles  Lamb  who  have 
striven  to  emulate  him,  Mr.  Lucas  comes  nearest  to  being  worthy  of 
him.  Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  natural  to  him  to  look  upon  life  and 
letters  and  all  things  with  something  of  Lamb's  gentleness,  sweetness, 
and  humor." 


Anthologies  of  Varied  Charm  Collected  by  E.  V.  LUCAS 

The  Gentlest  Art 

A  Choice  of  Letters  by  Entertaining  Hands 

Cloth,  I2mo,  viii  +  240  pp.,  $1.25  net 

An  anthology  of  letter  writing,  so  human,  interesting,  and  amusing 
from  first  to  last,  as  almost  to  inspire  one  to  attempt  the  restoration  of 
a  lost  art. 

"  We  do  not  believe  that  a  more  likable  book  has  been  published 
this  year."  —  The  Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

Another  Book  of 
Verse  for  Children 

Cloth,  8vo,  col.  illus.,  $1.50  net 

Verses  of  the  seasons,  of  "  little  fowls  of  the  air "  and  of  "  the 
country  round";  ballads  of  sailormen,  and  of  battle;  songs  of  the 
hearthrug,  and  of  the  joy  of  being  alive  and  a  child,  selected  by  Mr. 
Lucas  and  illustrated  in  black  and  white  and  with  colored  plates  by 
Mr.  F.  D.  Bedford.  The  wording  of  the  title  is  an  allusion  to  the 
very  successful  Book  of  Verse  for  Children  issued  ten  years  ago. 
The  Athenceum  describes  Mr.  Lucas  as  "  the  ideal  editor  for  such  a 
book  as  this." 

The  Ladies'  Pageant 

Cloth,  izmo  —  In  Press 

Better  than  any  one  else  whose  name  comes  to  mind  Mr.  Lucas  has 
mastered  the  difficult  art  of  the  compiler.  There  is  more  individu- 
ality in  The  Gentlest  Art,  for  instance,  than  in  the  so-called  original 
works  of  many  an  author.  This  happy  knack  of  assembling  the  best 
things  in  the  world  on  a  given  subject  is  given  free  play  in  the  present 
book,  the  subject  of  which  is  the  Eternal  Feminine.  Here  are  all 
the  best  words  of  the  poets  on  a  theme  which  surely  offers  scope  for 
more  variety  than  any  other  within  the  view  of  the  reader.  Like 
others  of  Mr.  Lucas's  books,  this  is  attractively  bound  and  decorated. 


LIBRARY 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000863813     2 


